


Counterpoint a Scordatura

by AgarthanGuide, akathecentimetre, TheCrackedKatana



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Classical Music, F/M, Gen, M/M, We'll Be Bach, i.e. 'The Juilliard AU'
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-03-25 21:39:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 34,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3825994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgarthanGuide/pseuds/AgarthanGuide, https://archiveofourown.org/users/akathecentimetre/pseuds/akathecentimetre, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCrackedKatana/pseuds/TheCrackedKatana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Obi-Wan Kenobi had hoped to rediscover his passion for music and life in general when he returned to music school, fifteen years older and quite a lot wiser; he <i>hadn't</i> expected to be adopted by a bunch of frankly frightening seventeen-year-olds or end up in bed with his extremely eccentric professor. But that's New York for you...</p><p>With illustration by <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/JakartaInn/pseuds/JakartaInn">JakartaInn</a>! Tags will be updated as we go with many more characters and relationships.</p><p>**Please note that this work is on hiatus.  We can't promise when we'll get back to it!**</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue/Prelude

*

[](http://i.imgur.com/jdlaUXU.jpg)  
Illustration by  [JakartaInn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/JakartaInn/pseuds/JakartaInn) ! Click for full-size.

*

**_Counterpoint:_ ** _a relationship between voices which are interdependent harmonically, but rhythmically independent.  
 **Scordatura:** any tuning of a stringed instrument that differs from standard tuning._

*

Qui-Gon first sees him in January, on a Tuesday afternoon, in the completely frigid main hall of Grand Central. God only knows what the occasion is, but the little group of singers huddled on the stairs up to the Apple Store are belting it out regardless, and what grabs Qui-Gon’s attention at first is actually that their collective Latin pronunciation is _appalling_.

He stops for a few seconds regardless, because he’s tired and irritated at the world and even mispronounced Josquin is balm to a weary soul; and there’s a tenor in the back row who’s not bad to look at, either. His tone is indiscernible in the echo and mad rush of the station, but he’s got bright eyes behind his black-rimmed glasses and a flop of copper hair that contrasts nicely with the off-white marble of the staircase, and his pseudo-Brooklyn beard is right in fashion. And so with something handsome to think about, and a ringing [_Miserere_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p6pBEHBXmKk) to listen to, Qui-Gon Jinn, Professor of Historical Performance (well, Adjunct Professor, but never mind that now, and what a fucking stuck-up label that always is, ‘historical performance’ my arse) closes his eyes and lets himself drift. By the time he’s opened them again the singers are packing up and the stairs are clear; the interesting tenor has vanished.

A week later the spring semester starts at Juilliard, and all hell breaks loose as per usual. Not so much for Qui-Gon, because he manages to make sure his office hours are never posted on the school website or anywhere else, and he’s fitted new locks onto his workshop’s door to minimize the vibrations of too many feet disturbing his precious belongings (the pearwood oboe on loan from the Met has a particularly headache-inducing insurance policy). His teaching load is light, too, because of course the administration hasn’t seen fit to send him the players he’s been begging for for Juilliard 415, and he certainly hasn’t gotten the gamba player he needs to put on any piece of note. His inbox is full of wheedling, flattering messages from undergraduates, of course – the classical guitarist signs her lawyeresque missive with a reminder that she is the Portuguese ambassador’s daughter, after all, and that she is therefore well-versed in the technique that would be required for Mudarra or De Fuenllana; a seventeen-year-old violinist, newly arrived in the fall, has emailed every week with increasingly annoying pleading – but he’s not going to touch them with a hundred-foot-pole.

All he’s got to work with is a couple of new, raw brass players and a cellist. A fucking _cellist_. His bow grip will be all wrong, Qui-Gon thinks to himself grumpily on the first day of classes; probably doesn’t even know how to hold his instrument up without an endpin. Useless.

The first morning of lessons passes in a haze of shouting and increasingly desperate trips to the café in the lobby of Alice Tully Hall, and a completely familiar dawning sense of dread that Qui-Gon is, in fact, the grumpy bastard of his reputation. By lunchtime he’s ready, also as usual, to pack it all in and very much wanting half a bottle of painkillers as his latest victim, a nineteen-year-old oboe player whose main offense was to play Qui-Gon’s own instrument in a manner completely unlike the way Qui-Gon (who is, you know, the _teacher_ in this situation) does. He doesn’t care what anyone says about the restorative powers of music – the long practice room corridors at Juilliard are no different or more charming than anywhere else, and the assault of too many styles and techniques as he stomps his way out is nearly too much.

But then there’s an open door at the end of the hall, out of which comes a pleasing, warm tenor which almost sounds familiar, and Qui-Gon pauses to listen, half in and half out of his coat.

“It’s good, Cody. Really good. Definitely coming along. For next week, you can work on smoother bow technique for the second Bourree – even if you don’t end up choosing that interpretation it’ll be useful practice. Like so – ”

It’s the [Bourree II](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EcR6j_JNwQs&feature=youtu.be&t=1h14m58s) of Bach’s fourth cello suite, warm and floating, the bow changes completely inaudible. The tone is rounded and steel-tensile strong, and makes Qui-Gon instantly think of steam rising from a fresh mug of tea.

He shakes his head clear of the thought as the Bourree ends, and frowns. _Damn associative memory_ , he thinks mutinously, and then a fucking ten-ish year old _child_ comes bounding out of the practice room, which – _what?_

“Mind your step,” calls the tenor voice again, as the child, with a ridiculously miniscule soft cello case on his back, races down the corridor towards the steps. “And tell Rex I’ll see him on Friday!”

Then the mysterious teacher is standing in the doorway, and oh, it _is_ the tenor from Grand Central, tucking his glasses into a breast pocket of a sweater which looks suspiciously like cashmere above his jeans. His cello is in his other hand, the base of the tailpiece resting on the top of his foot. The instrument doesn’t look like much, but having heard it in action Qui-Gon is not going to judge it on its appearance.

“Hello, Professor Jinn,” the man says pleasantly, and Qui-Gon finds himself annoyingly confused by this whole thing. “Sorry,” the stranger says, with a quirked smile at Qui-Gon’s wary stare. “Your reputation precedes you.”

“I can’t say the same for you,” Qui-Gon says, and the man ducks his head in apologetic acknowledgement. “Are you a student?”

“Part-time, Historical Performance MA. I only just started – Cody’s one of my students, and Mace was kind enough to let me meet with him here today. This week’s scheduling has been a bit of a nightmare, as I’m sure you can imagine.” And then the man holds out a hand. “Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

Fuck. This is Qui-Gon’s unwanted cellist, who is part-time, a mature student, has his own teaching load, and is fucking attractive to boot.

This might be the worst start to a semester that Qui-Gon’s ever had. And that’s saying something.

“I am, as you surmised, Qui-Gon Jinn,” he says dryly, accepting Obi-Wan’s hand for a brief, firm shake. He can feel the telltale calluses on the end of Obi-Wan’s fingers that indicate diligence, at least, which is promising. “I have a reputation?”

“Mace said something about teaching the first-years that it was perfectly fine to – what was it – ‘fuck the rules of chromatic harmony?’” Obi-Wan says, with more than a bit of a twinkle in his eye, and Qui-Gon wants to laugh despite himself. “While I applaud the sentiment, I imagine no one was pleased with their theory results at the end of the term.”

He turns away to start packing his cello away into its hard case, which is pleasingly free of the detritus of stickers and emblems so frequently collected by the more teenaged student body; while Qui-Gon hopes the implication that their conversation can continue is clear enough, he finds himself hovering uncertainly. _Fuck’s sake, get a grip and stop mooning!_

“You know Mace, then?” It seems a safe place to start.

“We were undergrads here at the same time. Damn long time ago, now,” Obi-Wan says without looking up from his unfurling bow hair. _Nice arse_ , Qui-Gon thinks vaguely, taking advantage of the view. “He managed to wrangle this degree deal for me when I told him I wanted to come back out of teaching.”

“Well, you’re in the right place,” Qui-Gon says, tilting his head back upright from his ogling as Obi-Wan brushes off his hands, closes the case’s snaps, and stands back up again. “I look forward to working with you.”

“Do you?” Obi-Wan says, blinking, almost as if he’s surprised. He’s fucking _blushing_ , suddenly, and this time Qui-Gon does smile. “Thank you.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“Maybe,” Obi-Wan interjects. “Part-time, remember.”

“Well, I hope not too part-time. You’ll hardly progress very far without constant application,” Qui-Gon says, suddenly jealous of his time. Since when had that last happened with one of his students? It’s been far too long, that’s for sure.

“Of course. But then again,” Obi-Wan says, hauling over his shoulders first his jacket (it’s well-battered leather, and it’s like his whole look was _designed_ to drive Qui-Gon crazy) and then the straps of his case, “being a functioning adult and not the self-obsessed teenager I was when I was first here, I’m also more than well aware that, despite all its charms, music is not everything there is to life. So,” he finishes, with an entirely shit-eating grin, “I guess I’ll just see you around.”

It takes Qui-Gon a very long moment to realize, through the clutch of utter shock that has stopped his breath, that he’s being teased. Unfortunately, by the time he’s gasped in some air again, Obi-Wan is long gone.

Well, fuck.

*

**TBC**

*


	2. Duo, Mvmt. 1

*

Obi-Wan finds himself looking forward to ‘tomorrow,’ which is exceedingly irritating given the fact that he hasn't the slightest reason to be anywhere near Lincoln Center at all. He surmises that clearly, an open practice space is needed that doesn't resemble a home environment.  Somehow, it isn't quite the same.  

The excuse is flimsy at best.  And he doesn't give a damn.

After managing to slink past the offices of his would-be peers, he pauses to consider just where he might ‘practice’ without interruption, but the hunt for such a mythical room is nearly as transparent as his ridiculous need to be within the confines of the building in the first place.  

A flurry of trills and flourishes greet his ears as he traverses the halls because while the building claims to have ‘soundproof’ rooms for practicing, nothing is immune to Paganini.  The musical absurdity is instantly recognizable in its complex array of skittering harmonics and runs, but the damn near frantic nature of it is finessed into something almost tame.

Which means only _one_ person can be playing it.

Obi-Wan swears under his breath, hoping to whatever deity might be listening that the brat of a prodigy hasn't seen him attempting a covert stroll down the hall, but the madness of flawless technical prowess ceases.  Obi-Wan attempts to stifle a groan and fails.

The insulated door pops open, sounding very much like the same suction a freezer makes at the local cracked-out bodega and there the insolent brat is standing in that bored, asinine way of his, looking for all the world as if Obi-Wan has somehow intruded upon his territory.

"Thought this was your day off," Anakin says.

_The snide little bastard._

"Keeping track of my schedule, are you?  I can't say that I'm flattered," Obi-Wan says with an overt, gracious smile that draws a scowl from the younger man.

It shouldn't please him this much to addle the kid, but it does.  If only he wouldn't make it so damn easy.

"Come to bore everyone to death with Bach?"  

After entertaining a brief fantasy of shoving the frog of Anakin's bow straight up his arse, Obi-Wan offers him another smile.  

"It was rumored that Paganini sold his soul to the devil in order to play as he did.  Tell me, Anakin, whatever could you possibly have to bargain for such an honor?"  

Blue eyes narrow and Obi-Wan shoulders his case a bit higher just for the hell of it.

"Like you'd know _anything_ about talent," Anakin sneers.

"Well, the next time I see some, I shall be certain to let you know," Obi-Wan says in such a warm, pleasant-as-fuck voice that the kid takes a step back as if he can't quite figure out the insult just yet.

Leaving Anakin to singe the hair of his bow with more 20th-century fury, Obi-Wan wanders past Mace Windu's office and down the south corridor towards the smaller recital hall, knowing full well that the entrance doors to the stage will be locked at this hour and smiling to himself for conning Leia out of her key to it.  It had taken the promise of ‘girl time’ to discuss the horror of gods only knew what, but it was well worth it.

He is more than a little surprised when the door opens on its own.  

Someone has beaten him to the coveted space, as evidenced by not only the unlocked door but the soft strands of piano music that greet his ears upon his intrusion.  He tips his head, listening.  Not Bach.  Certainly not Beethoven.  A hint of something Mozartian, yet far too melancholy to present as such.  Nonetheless, he is drawn to it, setting his weathered case down with a soundless motion, stepping past the stage curtain for a better look.

It's _him_.

He watches the graceful fingers stroke the keys as if coaxing the sound from them with a caress, teasing the phrase into a crescendo of mournful tranquility, only to have it recede into the unresolved warmth of a diminished 7th that threatens not to resolve itself.  Only it does.  And Obi-Wan lets out a breath he doesn't realize he's been holding.

"I thought you were part-time," Qui-Gon says, his eyes upon the keyboard.

Obi-Wan stiffens, tries to think of something witty or even simply conversational and fails.

"I am," he says at last.  Because this absolutely answers the inquiry.  "What..." He clears his throat and resists the urge to roll his eyes at himself.  "What are you playing?"

"I don't know," Qui-Gon says as his fingers venture further upon the keyboard in a strangely fitting harmonic minor modulation.  "I am making it up as I go."  He gazes askance at Obi-Wan, fingers halting upon the keyboard.  "Do you like it?"

Obi-Wan is certain that his swallow echoes within the confines of the recital hall like a comical sort of bomb.

"I do," he says.  "Very much."  

"Thank you," Qui-Gon says, and after a pause, he lifts his long fingers off the keys and turns on the bench to look Obi-Wan up and down. "Who were you speaking to out there?"

"Oh - a freshman I know," Obi-Wan says, slightly distracted by the thought that Qui-Gon was listening for, and recognized, his voice as he turns back to grab at the top of his cello case and drag it onto the stage. "I was here a lot last semester organizing things with Mace and testing out of various classes and somehow managed to get adopted by a flock of - "

"Admirers?"

"I was going to say lost ducklings, but thanks." Jesus, this was going from zero to a hundred pretty damn fast. "Anakin's an incredibly talented violinist, even if he lives mostly up his own ass. His girlfriend Padme plays viola so they decided I had to be their quartet cellist. And Leia's ostensibly here to study Renaissance guitar, but being the Portuguese ambassador's daughter keeps her busier than most."

"Everyone at this school is supposedly incredibly talented," Qui-Gon says dryly. "But I know at least two of those names," he continues absently, staring at a point somewhere over Obi-Wan's shoulder for a moment before he refocuses on Obi-Wan's face with a look which can only indicate a deep queasiness. "Oh - they're not the ones who've been emailing me for months about joining Juilliard 415, are they?"

"That'll be them."

"Should I let them?"

The thought of it makes Obi-Wan want to giggle, a lot. "They are _occasionally_ capable of not being sadistic little terrors."

"Oh dear," Qui-Gon says faintly. "And they've adopted you?"

"That's apparently what seventeen-year-olds do with confused newcomers who are twice their age these days."

"Twice? Surely not."

 _Fucking flirt. Professor, Kenobi, you're talking smut about a fucking professor!_ "Turned thirty-four last week." Obi-Wan turns to his case and starts unfastening the snaps so he doesn't have to look at Qui-Gon for any longer before his blush decides to spread down his neck. "Okay if I set up in a corner and work on something?"

"Capital idea," Qui-Gon says. "If you're going to be studying with me for the next two years I'd better know what I'm getting myself in for."

 _Quite a lot, I would imagine_ , Obi-Wan thinks traitorously before he shuts himself up and focuses on the oh-so-familiar routine of drawing out his endpin to the correct length down to the millimeter, tightening his bow and flicking it with his thumb to check on the state of his rosin. "What's your pleasure?"

Qui-Gon lets that sentence hang in the air, it feels like, waiting until Obi-Wan turns back around and has dragged one of the black stage-chairs closer to the piano. "[Bach, Suite 1, Prelude](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PCicM6i59_I)," he says eventually. And without another word, he puts his big hands on his knees, leans back slightly where he sits, and closes his eyes.

Obi-Wan nods to himself as he rolls his shoulders and plants his feet. As fact-finding missions go, Qui-Gon's choice is ideal - no cellist worth their salt at this level won't have the Prelude memorized down to the last eighth-note, and it's also forgiving enough that one's interpretation will reveal much of a player's technique and feel for Bach. He gathers his calm - normal breaths, no dramatic intake or grand gesture necessary - and begins.

He's never been quite sure of how legitimate his own take on the Suites is. He's more Ma than Casals in his choice of the legato over the accented rising lines, probably more lax with technique than a strict historical performer would tolerate (his propensity to bow freely rather than follow the written slur patterns would probably alarm them) but, he hopes, pure enough in tone to make up for it. Roundabout thirty seconds in, as usual, he loses track of time; when he reaches the end of the Prelude, he looks very briefly, hazily, over at Qui-Gon, and, receiving a minute nod in return, he continues on into the suite's Allemande.

Fifteen minutes or so later, he comes to the end of the suite and lets out a long breath he hadn't been aware of holding. Bach has always calmed Obi-Wan, made him feel centered and secure somewhere untouchable. Maybe, he thinks hopefully, this second round at Juilliard will work out after all.

"Not bad," Qui-Gon says, opening one eye slightly. "You have a very balanced tone. A little loose in the technical details, perhaps, but nothing a redirection of your focus won't fix."

"That'll do me for a first attempt," Obi-Wan says, genuinely happy.

"Ever played a gamba?"

"Tried it out a few times," Obi-Wan replies, more cautiously, resting his hands on his spread knees. "Never in a professional capacity, and I certainly wasn't taught any technique."

"Right. My office," Qui-Gon says, abruptly standing. There is a calculating, impatient look in his face as Obi-Wan scrambles to pack up and swing his case over his shoulders, and then it's nearly a ten-minute walk into the bowels of the building before Qui-Gon is kicking irritably at the ill-fitting wooden door and shoving his way into what looks like was once a janitor's closet, pre-1900, except it's stuffed to the gills with instruments, rows of wooden oboes and thick rounded flutes, reams and reams of loose scores stuffed into bookcases, all of it lit only by a weak shaft of sunlight from what must be a street-level grate. There's a meticulously clean Persian carpet under Obi-Wan's feet as he stands and gapes; composition paper spills from a few carved wooden stands, an ivory-fingerboarded violin hangs from a peg behind the long, low desk.

"Where've you been hiding all this?" he asks, dumbfounded, suddenly very aware of the New York street-dust on his shoes.

"Good, isn't it?" Qui-Gon says, clearly pleased. He's behind the desk and opening a deep armoire, reaching into it to pull out a long, thick baroque bow. "Sit."

Obi-Wan puts down his case and perches gingerly on the quilted stool which stands a few feet back from the desk. Qui-Gon walks around the desk and holds the bow out to Obi-Wan - his fingers are cradling it in an underhand grip which Obi-Wan has only seen some of his old bass-playing friends use. "The French method calls for the ridiculous technique of holding the thumb under the hair, which is completely uncontrollable. You'll be learning the Italian - grasped high above the frog, thumb coming across the hair and making contact with the index, with the the index and third handling most of the pressure. Try it."

He comes around behind Obi-Wan, puts the bow into his right hand, and, just like any other teacher confronting a new student, be they a child or a teen or, currently, a quite-flustered adult, bends down to adjust Obi-Wan's fingers until they are just so. "Good. Draw it back and forth - more in the wrist. Your elbow will most often remain tighter into the body. Keep going," he orders, and lets go of Obi-Wan to return to the armoire. Obi-Wan's well-trained arm suddenly feels clumsy as all hell, which is disturbing, but he's never been called a slow learner; he keeps up the slow rhythm of drawing the bow back and forth across his raised left hand, letting his right wrist get used to its new extended range of movement.

When he looks up again, Qui-Gon is holding out what looks like a cello at first glance, but clearly isn't one at a second. The gamba is smaller, but much deeper in the body than any modern instrument; its fingerboard is wider to accommodate the two extra strings, it has no endpin of any kind, and the scroll is topped with a carved cornucopia. It is, in a word, gorgeous.

"Gut strings. Tuning in fourths and thirds - D, A, E, C, G, D," Qui-Gon says casually, flipping the gamba around by its neck so it faces him and then holding it out until it settles between Obi-Wan's knees. "Your strong strokes are reversed, so your stressed notes will be on up- or push-bows, not down, pull-bows. You have a tuning fork built for the 415 A?"

"I've got an app on my phone that I can tune to whatever hertz I need," Obi-Wan says - he ignores the scoff of pure disdain that elicits from Qui-Gon completely, giddy as he is, as he always has been, with the look and feel of a new musical companion. The gamba is heavier than he would have expected, and will require adjustment in order to keep it balanced with the strength of his legs alone; the frets are placed far apart enough that he'll probably need to find new ways of stretching his left hand to play without overextending. That's probably not a problem Qui-Gon will ever have or understand, so it's not worth bringing up in his company.

"Hm," Qui-Gon says, and Obi-Wan looks up from plucking quietly at the lower strings to see that the professor has a predatory, speculative look in his eyes. Given the way the morning's gone so far, Obi-Wan is more than ready to read that in all _sorts_ of different ways. "Are you someone who likes to work towards big goals, or do you prefer to learn on the fly?"

"Well, I like to know what I'm getting into, for sure. Why?"

"What would you say if I told you that by the end of this semester, I expect you to have performed all six Bach suites in one concert seating and played both gamba solos in the Matthew Passion?"

Obi-Wan wants to drop the gamba, but knows that would be a terrible idea. "Fuck," he squawks.

Qui-Gon grins. "Right answer. We'd better get started."

Two hours later, Obi-Wan is wondering if his callouses can take any further abuse, the grooves worn by the newness of a different instrument pink and sore in spots.  Of course, there will be no admitting to this, no hint of just how the joints of his knuckles are beginning to complain at the oddness of the reach difference and certainly not any sort of mention regarding his inner thighs, which feel very much as if he has been running marathons around Lincoln Center Plaza.  

"I believe that will do for today," Qui-Gon says.

Obi-Wan cannot contain the barest hint of a weary sigh, but he offers the professor a smile just the same.  Qui-Gon returns the expression with a crooked rendition, the tips of his fingers stroking his bearded chin as if he is considering something amusing.  Or perhaps plotting the demise of Obi-Wan's bowing hand.

"Well?"  Qui-Gon arches an eyebrow.

"Well."  Obi-Wan gives the shorter hairs at the nape of his neck a backwards ruffle.  "I dare say I feel a bit..."  

_Exhausted?  Intimidated?  Turned-on as fuck?_

"Inept," he finishes at last.

Qui-Gon steps closer to him, his stature seeming to claim every inch of space available in the room and Obi-Wan is all too aware that the man is nearly half a foot taller than he is.

"Nonsense," the professor says.  He lays a hand upon Obi-Wan's shoulder.  "I have great faith in your ability."

Qui-Gon's hand engulfs his shoulder, the weight of it a heavy, almost ponderous thing that retracts far too soon, leaving behind an imprint of warmth through the fabric of Obi-Wan's sweater.  

"Good to know one of us does," Obi-Wan teases with a light, nervous sort of laugh that sounds far too giddy for a man in his 30's.

"Hmmn," Qui-Gon muses with a smirk.  

But he says nothing more, giving Obi-Wan time to collect both his instrument and his thoughts, the latter of which are more scattered than the preponderance of sheet music that spans the professor's desk.

Said-professor is currently at ease with himself, sifting through a pile of archaic books that have no place of their own upon the crammed bookshelf.

Obi-Wan's gaze lingers upon the graying hair, the topmost portion of which has been pulled away from Qui-Gon's face, as if he couldn't be bothered with the rest.   His stare traverses the man's broad shoulders and angles down to the trim V of his waist.  And one spectacular ass.  

_For fuck's sake, Kenobi..._

He shakes his head and performs and intense study of his cello case, if checking the latches for imperfections and wills himself to keep his eyes upon the ‘task.’

"Perhaps this will be of some use to you."

He glances up from his forced distraction with a blink.  The book Qui-Gon is holding out to him is thick, yellowed with age and tattered at the corners.  And apparently in Latin.

"A little history," Qui-Gon says, nodding towards the gamba as if Obi-Wan should read his mind as well.  He pauses, head angling to a slow tilt.  "You can read Latin, can you not?"

"A good deal of it, yes."

And to think all of those nonsense undergraduate courses in a ‘dead language’ might some day pay off in this fashion.  He takes the book and tucks it away into his bag with an odd sort of reverence.

"Tomorrow, then?"

He pauses in reclaiming his instrument from the floor and gives Qui-Gon a look.

"Part-time, remember?"  he says.

The wry curve of Qui-Gon's mouth matches the twinkle in his eyes, which Obi-Wan has just noticed are an uncommon shade of dark blue.  

"Right," Qui-Gon says as he holds the door open.  " _Part-time._ "

*

**TBC**

*


	3. Duo, Mvmt. 2

*

What with the rush of classes, friendships regained and lost and more than a few enemies gleefully made - oh, and the difficult task of regaining calluses on over-softened fingertips, because they may be diligent but they're hardly going to spend their spring break not taking an _actual_ break from what they'll probably be doing for the rest of their lives - Padme and Leia don't manage to get together even for a coffee until the second week of the semester. When they do, it's a balmy -2 degrees outside and their hugs have to wait for them to rush, shivering and puffing, into the lobby at Alice Tully, and are then made awkward and bulky by their big coats and respective instrument cases. Hugging around a viola case might sound difficult, but try a guitar. Nowhere to put your hands.

"Good break?" Padme says, teeth chattering as they edge into the line for coffee.

"Fine. Azores, you know."

Padme rolls her eyes. "Show-off."

"I didn't _want_ to go. Ambassador Organa's such a traditionalist." Someday Padme's going to make a pointed comment about how weird she finds it that her best friend calls her father by his title, but today, when all she wants is to inhale some java to restart some warmth in her innards, is not that day.

Coffee finally in red-tinged hands, they find the task of grabbing a free table as difficult as ever - students are the damned worst, Padme thinks sourly, when it comes to claiming an entire table with scores and cases when each could easily fit four. But then Leia grabs her arm, and grins, and points, and Padme knows exactly where they're headed.

"Oooh," Leia whispers gleefully as they get closer, her ears clearly already pricked at the potential of gathering some good gossip. "Girl-talk _long_ overdue."

Judging by just how face-down Obi-Wan is, his forehead pressed into the plastic tabletop, Padme is going to assume Leia is entirely right. He's got his right arm on the table next to him, his hand up in the air, and is slowly flexing his fingers like they're about to fall off.

" _Darling_ ," Leia coos, and they swoop down on him like the mother hens they so enjoy being. He looks tired as he startles up, wide-eyed, but the smile which creases through his beard a moment later is familiar and warm.

"Ladies," he rasps, and then, clearing his throat, he pushes out two of the other chairs and waits for them to get settled. He'd been lying across a book, Padme sees, and a set of keys which have left a fading impression in his cheek.

Leia, always quicker with her fingers because Guitarist, thank you very much, snatches up the ring before Padme can get a word out about how her break was actually insanely boring. "I'll be taking that," she says primly, slipping one of the two silver keys off of the loop. "I'm claiming the recital hall back, Kenobi."

"Fair enough - I've gotten some good use out of it, at least," Obi-Wan says, ever kind, as he picks up his previously neglected mug of tea.

Leia starts frowning. "Kenobi," she says slowly, suspiciously, as she dangles the other key across the table at him. "What's this one?"

"Hm?" He's not fooling anyone, but Padme'll be damned before she admits that Obi-Wan is anything but adorable when he's attempting to look innocent.

"It's got the Juilliard stamp, Obi-Wan," Padme chimes in, squinting at the remaining key and getting more than a little curious herself. "What have you done now?"

He looks briefly back and forth between them, as though he's considering his options, and then puts down the mug of tea, gingerly. "It's a key to Professor Jinn's office."

Silence reins. Well, except for the squawk of a trumpet in a far corner from some student who's bored and showing off, but that doesn't count.

"I _beg_ your pardon," Leia deadpans.

Obi-Wan straightens, drawing himself taller in his seat as if this will somehow help his case.

"I haven't much choice," he says. "It isn't as if I can lug several instruments around at once, much less something that is quite possibly older than the three of us combined."

Padme looks to Leia who narrows her eyes accordingly and both pan back to the cellist, who has now sunk back in his chair several inches.  And rightly so.

"What--" Padme starts to say, but Leia cuts her off with a sharp roll of her wrist.

" _Explain_ , Kenobi," Leia says, tapping tapered nails upon the plastic table.  

The ones on her left hand are curiously absent, cut short and blunt, a strange contrast to the right hand.  Picking is a mortal sin in the world of classical guitar, as Leia has informed Padme approximately nine thousand times.  

"Well," says Obi-Wan as he runs a hand through his rather disheveled excuse for hair.  "He's got me playing the gamba, you see.  And--"

" _Gamba?!_ "  Leia repeats, as if he has just said something scandalous and improper.  

Padme waves her hand to silence her friend, knowing the effort will possibly prove futile, but she tries it just the same.

" _Why?_ "  Padme asks, because surely there must be some burning, urgent reason for it.  "I mean, that's an archaic sort of--"

"Doesn't Jinn know that's wasting your time?"  Leia interrupts.  "Next thing you know, they'll expect me to learn electric bass for the jazz band."

Obi-Wan rests a forearm upon the table and leans forward, silencing them both with what Padme swears is a smile pointed enough to frighten a shark.

"Perhaps you're both a bit jealous, hmm?"  Obi-Wan's tone is only half-teasing.  "Surely it isn't because you might have contacted the Professor yourselves for such a thing."

Leia opens her mouth.  Closes it.  Opens it again.

"Jinn won't even give _Anakin_ the time of day," Padme says.  "And Ani's _brilliant_."

Obi-Wan mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like a vulgar comparison between a horse's backside and something pornographic and Padme shoots him a look.

"What was that?" she asks.

"Nothing, my darling," Obi-Wan says with a dismissive wave.

"There's something else," Leia says.  

Obi-Wan shrugs a shoulder, blue eyes at half-mast.  "What else could there possibly be?"

Padme can _hear_ Leia's mind clicking and whirring, or maybe it's just the echo in her own ears. She looks at Obi-Wan, takes in his slightly downcast eyes, his tastefully hipster chic (that's normal, isn't it? Or is the scarf new?), his fingers fiddling with the edge of the book. It's an old one, open to the flyleaf, on which is scribbled a messily familiar signature.

"Oh my god you've fucked him," Leia says in a rush, and Padme's mouth drops open. "Oh my _god_ , Kenobi. How fucking _dare_ you, it's going to take _months_ to burn these images out of my brain - "

"What images?" Padme says queasily, as Obi-Wan creases into a full-body frown and points a stern finger at each of them in turn.

"Now wait just a minute - "

"We're only _one week in_ , Kenobi!"

"I'm not _that_ easy!" he protests, but then his ears turn red and he flops back in his chair in as much of a declaration of defeat as Padme has ever seen. "I mean, I _wish,_ but - "

"OH MY GOD." Other students are starting to turn and gleefully watch Leia now, because the Ambassador's daughter in a full snit is always prime entertainment, and Padme moves swiftly to contain the situation, grabbing Obi-Wan and Leia each by a shoulder and pulling them together into a conspiratorial huddle.

"Details," she demands. "Now."

"Except not _those_ details, because how about _no_ ," Leia adds fiercely.

Obi-Wan lets out a noise that makes it sound like he's dying, slowly, and thunks his forehead back into the tabletop. "There _are_ none of _those_ details, Leia," he says, muffled against the medieval Latin. "Unless you actually want a rundown of my dream diary for the past week - "

Leia's shriek finally brings in one of her embassy bodyguards from his discreet watching post in the corner, though he retreats again quickly enough when she flaps a distracted hand at him.

Padme reaches out and attempts to pet Obi-Wan's hair, which is an uncharacteristic mess. "Wow, you're really serious," she says, overwhelmed with a sudden impulse to pity, and the fact that, once she and Leia get over the shock, this is actually going to be unfairly cute. She could do without Jinn's beard and general weirdness, but she knows he's a brilliant musician, and given the sort of man everyone knows Obi-Wan to be he's hardly the sort to dive in the deep end without reason.

Obi-Wan lifts his head and looks up at her, and when he smiles there's something tentative and hopeful in his eyes which, absurdly, makes Padme think of Anakin when he's in a good mood and convinced he's a romantic. In Obi-Wan's case, she suspects the sentiment is quite a bit more genuine. "I rather think it's inevitable," Obi-Wan says quietly. "Which terrifies the fuck out of me."

"You're not allowed to be terrified," Leia says flatly, though when Padme looks over at her she can see that her friend is, rarely, holding back a smile. "You're supposed to be the functioning adult and fount of All Wisdom."

"Oh, of course," Obi-Wan says, pointedly rolling his eyes. "Well, this functioning adult, who is apparently living in a terrible Telemundo sitcom, needs to get back to another six hours of arpeggiated scales. I'll see you soon?" he ends, shrugging his coat over his shoulders and stuffing the book under his arm. "With _all_ the details," he adds, then, waggling an eyebrow at Leia, whose look has returned to that of someone planning a long and grisly murder. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do, my dears."

"Or any _one_ ," Leia mutters rudely, as Obi-Wan winds his way through the crowd. Padme finally can't help herself, and leans down to snigger into her now stone-cold coffee. When she's recovered, Leia is still staring after Obi-Wan, shaking her head.

"Aw, Leia," Padme says, wiping at her eyes. She hasn't felt this invested in school scandal since her first week of Orientation. "You didn't really think you had a chance, did you?"

"Nah," the diplomat's daughter says, and it's casual enough that Padme believes her. "Just some healthy hero-worship. Christ, if Jinn fucks him up I will pull _all_ the necessary strings to get him disappeared."

Padme leans closer. "You know," she says slyly, "the first rehearsal of 415 is tomorrow night."

"Oh," Leia breathes, big brown eyes wide. "We should sell tickets."

"A woman after my own heart," Padme giggles.

 

*

**TBC**

*


	4. Duo, Mvmt. 3

*

Qui-Gon Jinn is a patient man, his resolves a quiet strength among the absolute fuckery amongst the general student population.  Meditation and Qigong are his allies.  Spiritualism comes to him with ease.

Rehearsal, however, is threatening to bring down the wrath of several furious gods.

He pauses.  Pinches the bridge of his nose between a thumb and forefinger.  Shakes his head.  Reminds himself that breathing is, in fact, a function that is necessary for his body and makes a slow show of unclenching his fist from the edge of the podium, once he realizes his nails are threatening to carve it into sawdust.

"Right," he says.  "That was..."

He struggles to think of an adjective that doesn't mean horrible, appalling, or ghastly.  He also tries desperately to remember just how difficult this piece was for him at first glance, but finds that he cannot recall such a thing.  Because it never occurred.

"...a good effort," he says at last.

And now, he must address the looks, those painfully hopeful stares of the student masses, each one silently begging for just a single shred of his attention or approval.  It is a look he has never understood.

"You will notice I have yet to post a list of certain key parts," he says.  "I will apprise you of my decisions once they have been made."

Every set of eyes passes Obi-Wan a slow, slanted glare, some in annoyance, others amusement.  Qui-Gon's brow furrows and he frowns at the score a bit, stroking the edges of his beard with two fingers.

He refrains from reprimanding them over the phrasing of the third measure of the  _Erkenne mich, mein Hüter_ , reminding himself that is just the first day.  He does, however, take a moment to inform the principal violinist that her G-string is slightly at odds with the other three pitches, and rolls his eyes when the ensemble snickers at his words usage.

"There is much work to be done," he says to the students, who are rapt with attention at the merest intonation of his voice.  "My expectations are high."

Murmurs of agreement and dismay confirm much of his suspicion, but he keeps an overdramatic sigh to himself, at least until they have begun to file out and talk amongst themselves.  But of course, not before the questioning has begun.

_What does his think of the staccato articulation of this passage?  What of the tempo for this one?  Is this particular technique applicable for shaving down an oboe reed if it is too thick and what type of reed would he recommend?  Double tonguing or single?  Why on earth is this slur there?_

_Great gods._

He answers with as much grace as he can manage and does his best not to flick his gaze to Obi-Wan, who is currently bent over his case in an almost shameless display.  As if he knows Qui-Gon is watching.

Things deep within is core tighten and he lets out a breath.   _Fucking tart, that one._

Obi-Wan is taking his time, examining a peg as if perhaps there might be something to tune or tighten, but Qui-Gon sees through the facade.  Once the last student has managed to drag herself (and several obviously giggling friends) away, he makes his way to opposite end of the room, his stride casual, demeanor admirably indifferent.

"Having some sort of problem?"  he asks the younger man, unable to keep the slow smirk from curving one side of his mouth.

Obi-Wan looks up as if surprised, the look of innocent shock as transparent as the bottle water resting beside his chair.

"This case is temperamental," Obi-Wan tells him.  "I have to make certain I've got things just right before I close it."

Qui-Gon arches an eyebrow.  "Right," he says.  His voice dips into a lower register as he leans against the wall with one shoulder.  "I've heard you, you know."

Obi-Wan glances up with a blink.  "Heard me?"  

"Yes."  Qui-Gon strolls around to the opposite side of him, the scuff of his shoes upon the tile a sweep indicative of an elegant, ambling pace.  "In my office."

A hint of pink flushes Obi-Wan's cheeks and he performs and intense study of his shoes, an action that is both endearing and amusing.  

"I'm trying," he says.  

"I know."  Qui-Gon steps closer.  "You've gone from clumsily sawing at the strings to a smoother balance in quite a short amount of time."

" _Uh_ ," says Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon chuckles deep within his throat.

The younger man flips the latches on his case closed and turns to face the professor, but his gaze is level with Qui-Gon's sweater and not his eyes..  Qui-Gon slips a finger beneath his chin to fix that, angling Obi-Wan's stare to his own.

"It impresses me," Qui-Gon says.

Obi-Wan's swallow is a visible and somewhat audible gesture. "R-really?"  His laugh is uncertain.  Airy.  Nervous.  "You flatter me, Professor Jinn."

"I flatter no one," Qui-Gon informs him.  

The kiss has no precursor, no tilting of the head or teasing brush of mouths, but is still somehow gentle, an invitation for more without the demand for it.

Obi-Wan's response belies the tentative shock he feigns over it all, his fingers sliding into Qui-Gon's hair to grip handfuls of it.  He is eager and willing, not at all timid.  It is the certainty that has drawn Qui-Gon to him from the start and to finally have it displayed in this way is more arousing than the finest rendition of any Baroque concerto.  

Qui-Gon has the sudden urge to tell the other man just what he would like to do with all of this passion.  Possibly in German.  And then again in Latin.  Perhaps bent over his workbench, the one where he fuses together the bodies of ancient stringed instruments, making them whole and useful again, but the moment is shattered by the slam of the auditorium door, an all-too-irritating reminder of their current reality.

"Oh, god," Obi-Wan says, sounding slightly sick. When Qui-Gon looks at him he's staring wearily at the now-closed door, face full of recognition. "Well," he says in answer to Qui-Gon's querying glance, "at least it was Padme taking the pictures. She's the least likely to sell them."

"Ah. Blackmail?"

"Not her style. Practical jokes, however...."

Qui-Gon is more than ready to take hold of Obi-Wan's wrist and pick up where they left off, but then Obi-Wan sighs and takes a step backwards, coming to rest beside his case, and if he were less aware of his purported dignity as a professor Qui-Gon would be inclined to say something very bitter and rude.

"I have to be downtown in half an hour," Obi-Wan murmurs, his hands open and apologetic at his sides. "Kit Fisto roped me into his pick-up chorus for a Britten performance."

Qui-Gon cannot stop the flash of disdain which he knows has flashes across his face. "I expect better of Kit," he says sniffily, partly to hide the fact that if this is Obi-Wan's way of playing hard to get, he could really do without it. Tease. "I had such high hopes for his Couperin."

"Yeah, not really your sort of thing," Obi-Wan says as he shoulders his case, and a joking lilt has indeed returned to his tone. "Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," Qui-Gon affirms, stepping right into Obi-Wan's space and drawing himself up to his full height for effect. It works, too, as Obi-Wan's eyes flare and the pitch of his breath lowers. "For a part-timer, you're proving awfully diligent."

"I have such tantalizing incentives," Obi-Wan whispers, and surges up to capture Qui-Gon's mouth again. With no further interruptions, Qui-Gon makes sure that by the time Obi-Wan steps back, his hair is a mess and his lips are swollen, color risen into his cheeks and eyes. He leaves slowly, but doesn't take the risk of looking back.

Qui-Gon smirks to himself and consciously pulls himself together before making his own way out of the rehearsal room and into the darkened corridors beyond. Despite already having evidence that this secret is out, it wouldn't do, he thinks, to display himself as too shameless in front of any lingering members of the student body.

The next day is a busy one in the morning, so it's early afternoon by the time he makes it to his office, absurdly overpriced lunch in hand. The door is slightly open, and Obi-Wan's voice, terse and more than a little annoyed, is floating out into the hall.

"For the last time, Anakin, no, I do not know how the photos got onto your phone - "

" _They weren't just put on my phone, they were TAKEN on my phone!_ " the obvious teenager on the other end of Obi-Wan's line yells, loud enough to be heard by a deeply amused Qui-Gon. " _I totally wouldn't put it past you to steal it and the two of you set it up as some great joke about how I'm not good enough to be in your little club -_ "

"Jesus, Anakin!" Obi-Wan barks. "Calm that massive ego of yours, it's not about you at all. Padme took them."

Silence. " _Wait so - it wasn't a setup? You actually -_ "

"Goodbye, Anakin."

" _Whoa, whoa, hang the fuck on -_ "

Obi-Wan is very firmly hanging up on his ridiculous contraption of a phone, gamba between his legs and bow across his knees, when Qui-Gon steps in. "Trouble in paradise?" he asks breezily.

"Oh, we are so far from paradise we're off the goddamn map," Obi-Wan groans. He looks up, then, and offers Qui-Gon a blinding smile - but when Qui-Gon turns to shut the door, he holds out a hand. "Uh - Professor Jinn? I rather think you should keep that propped open."

Qui-Gon raises an eyebrow. "Oh?"

He hears feet in the corridor, then, and slight whispers. He's not used to traffic down here - it's one of the reasons he'd chosen his office when he'd first been hired, in fact. A few moments later, two girls waft lazily into view and then chatter their way past. One has a bead on Qui-Gon, and if he's not mistaken, the other leans backwards just far enough as she passes to take a good look at Obi-Wan.

He turns back to where Obi-Wan is sitting. "Honestly?"

"Honestly. Leia's got them working in ten-minute patrols. And I don't know about you," he says, far too casually, "but ten minutes is nowhere near enough time for what I have in mind."

 _Sneak_ , Qui-Gon thinks happily, and makes a mental note to rain all of these loving insults on Obi-Wan's head at the first opportunity. "Very well," he agrees, and shoves the door open wide, keeping it there with a disassembled metal music stand. "We might as well get some work done."

Four surprisingly productive hours later, Obi-Wan is starting to get the handle of double-stop technique on the gamba - enough to get started practicing on the Matthew Passion's second solo, which is more than Qui-Gon could have hoped for at this early stage. The parade of curious students has not slowed, and Qui-Gon is also very close to murdering every single one of them as Obi-Wan yawns, stands, and stretches ostentatiously, his sweater riding far enough up his hips to show skin.

"Tonight?" Obi-Wan says, eyes twinkling.

"Tomorrow," Qui-Gon says regretfully. The nightlife of a musician has never before felt so frustrating. "Reviewing Fretwork at St. Patrick's."

"Tomorrow, then," Obi-Wan says, and, in the few minutes' gap they have between interruptions, he gives Qui-Gon the same parting he did the previous night. It takes everything Qui-Gon has learned from two decades of tai chi meditation not to pull Obi-Wan into his lap then and there.

He settles for the very pleasant discovery that Obi-Wan has an exquisitely sensitive neck, and that kissing it in just the right places makes him purr like a kitten. Obi-Wan leaves flustered, buttoning up his coat collar to its full height; it is a very good look on him.

 _Tomorrow, damn it_ , Qui-Gon thinks grumpily, and turns back to his scores.

*

**TBC**

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh... wow! This fic and [another fic of AKA's](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3476327/chapters/7632248) have gotten some (totally unexpected) mega-attention in the past 24 hours or so. We're very flattered by all the new kudos, but also pretty darn perplexed. Perhaps some of our lovely new guests could drop us a comment to let us know how they found their way here? :-)


	5. Duo, Mvmt. 4

*

Obi-Wan finds that ‘tomorrow’ is a taunting beast of an issue that plagues him for far too many hours before he manages to acquire some semblance of sleep.  Worriment is not on his radar and neither is its cousin, concern.  No, these have been replaced by far more nefarious instances that his mind is all too happy to provide at random (and possibly inconvenient) times.  Inappropriate levels of giggling unbefitting to someone of his age have possibly followed.

By the time he reaches the confines of the music building, he has had far too much coffee and perhaps more ‘thinking’ than any person should be able to manage, but he presents a neutral, if not impassive countenance to those whose curiosity is more piqued than it should be.

He even goes so far as to switch off his phone, which lights up with a message notification at least every thirty seconds.  Perhaps a search party will be sent when he fails to reply, but the thought is more amusing than irritating.

Jinn is already there, of course, bent over his workbench, fashioning a reed from a blank with meticulous, almost absurd precision.  While Obi-Wan knows very little of such things, it does not surprise him that the professor would much prefer to make his own, rather than deign to buy a prefabricated version.

Obi-Wan sets his cello and book bag aside, one hand upon the bookshelf as he watches for a moment before ambling closer to see just what Qui-Gon might be doing to the sliver of wood.

"What's that for?"  he asks.  "It looks far too large for an oboe."

"Bassoon," Qui-Gon says as he brushes away a curl of wood with a careful flick of his finger.

"Quirky instrument, that," Obi-Wan says.

Qui-Gon's crooked smile is a familiar, warming gesture.  "I am a quirky individual."

"That's putting it mildly," Obi-Wan teases.

"Hmmn," Jinn muses in that wordless way of his that speaks volumes without the necessity of conversation.

He sets the reed aside and rises from the bench, grabbing his now-buzzing phone from his desk and glances at the message there with a frown.

"Someone daring to call out for a practice session?"  Obi-Wan asks.

Qui-Gon smirks.  "Open door in a place where it shouldn't be," he says, adding to Obi-Wan's confusion.  "Green room.  Old auditorium.  The maintenance guy is apparently disturbed."

"The auditorium has a functioning green room?"  Obi-Wan says.

"Not exactly."  Qui-Gon pockets his phone and glances askance at his companion.  "I've got to lock it up again.  I apologize for cutting into our practice time, but it shan't take me long."  He brushes past Obi-Wan, making certain to scrape edges of his exposed collarbone with his blunt nails as he trails a hand down his sleeve.  "Go ahead and get started without me."

Obi-Wan starts to mention that he has ‘started without him’ in his mind a good twenty times or more just this morning alone, but leaves the sentiment as it is, watching as Jinn exits the office, but doesn't bother to close the door on him.

It takes Obi-Wan approximately ten seconds of indecision before he slips into the hall to follow him.

*

The ‘green room’ is actually a horrid shade of something between mustard and peach.  Qui-Gon can only surmise that age has rendered the paint useless because surely, no human being could ever paint a wall with it on purpose.

The fact that the room is yet again open is of more concern that the color of the walls, due to the fact that Qui-Gon is the only person in the department who holds the key to open it.  Some clever (or perhaps not so much) student has found a way to either pick the locks or there is an unclaimed copy of the archaic key floating around somewhere, which is actually the less palatable of the two theories.

The ‘responsibility’ of the key is something Qui-Gon has never understood.  The department head often gifts the faculty with odd jobs for no other purpose except, ‘because,’ a trait that Qui-Gon has always found to be most irritating.  Just why it is important that this particular room remained locked at all times is mystery, but Qui-Gon tends to it just the same.

He pushes the door open and steps inside, taking a visual inventory of the junk within its confines.  Scraps of costumes past their prime drape nearly every flat surface, hanging from the well-smudged mirror of the prepping station that was once used for makeup application.  An old sheet with a floral print that is the stuff of hippie nightmares half-covers a chaise with a broken leg that has been glued back together so many times, the foot of it is at odds with the rest of the structure.  Props are stacked in every corner ranging from plastic swords to rusting replicas of armor.

Although the room is a clutter of chaos, Qui-Gon is more than aware of where each piece resides and notes with some bemusement that nothing appears to be amiss.

Except for Obi-Wan standing in the doorway.

His student is doing his best to appear nonchalant and merely curious, but the effort is almost comical, especially given the fact that he cannot seem to affect a neutral stance in the doorway.

"I wanted to see this alleged room," Obi-Wan says.  As if this is a plausible explanation.

The professor arches an eyebrow.  He says nothing, stepping closer and beckoning to Obi-Wan with a crooked finger.

"Wait," Qui-Gon says.   He nods towards the space behind Obi-Wan.  "Close the door." 

*

Obi-Wan does, quickly and quietly, and stuffs his hands in his pockets as soon as he's done because frankly, given the plans they have, it seems the safest place for them. Qui-Gon is looking at him calmly when he turns around, apparently completely unflustered by the fact that, for the first time, they are alone with their intentions.

"I didn't want any of our meddling little friends to hear this," Qui-Gon says, then, and steps forward, once again towering over Obi-Wan in a way that simultaneously makes him want to run and/or climb the other man like a fucking tree. "But - "

"Yes?" Obi-Wan breathes, instantly impatient with Qui-Gon's pause. He's not sure whether what he's just said was a statement or a question.

Qui-Gon leans down and close, long hair brushing Obi-Wan's cheek. "Yours or mine?"

It takes Obi-Wan a second to catch up, and when he does, all he really wants to do is complain. "Oh," he mutters, unable to keep disappointment out of his voice. "Do we - _have_ to go anywhere?"

"Given the evidence, I'd say very much yes," Qui-Gon replies fondly, one of his hands coming to rest lightly on Obi-Wan's collarbone. "So, I ask again - yours, or mine?"

Obi-Wan's mind suddenly comes to life with the blaze of realization that is _Oh,_ this isn't a brush-off, this is good, this is _better_. "Mine," he says without thinking, and, without further ado, he turns around to open the door.

Their walk back to Qui-Gon's office, the donning of coats, and the careful locking of it behind them - because Obi-Wan'll be damned if he's letting even his much-beloved cello distract him at a time like this, and it'll be safe enough here overnight - is downright collegial, as though nothing spectacularly important has happened. It's freezing cold when they get outside, but the subway platform is, after all, only steps away. At one point while they're waiting Qui-Gon asks where it is, exactly, they are going, and Obi-Wan answers cheerfully about how he's actually just housesitting for old friends at the moment and he'll have to find somewhere new in June, but it's in the West Village and too good to pass up, and that, too, feels downright normal.

It's only when the creeping, jam-packed downtown 1 train arrives that things get interesting, because it's rush hour on a Thursday night and everyone and their mother is crammed into the car they're trying to board, and Obi-Wan almost doesn't make it on after Qui-Gon shoulders his way in - until Qui-Gon grabs his arm and pulls them flush together, the door finally manages to close, and Obi-Wan finds himself craning to look straight up into those fucking blue eyes, transfixed.

At 42nd Street they manage to push their way further in but the incoming crowd sucks away any space they might have gained, and Obi-Wan doesn't give a damn. At 34th, with several elbows pressed into his back, he puts one leg in between Qui-Gon's and relishes the slow rise of an eyebrow he gets in return.

At 28th Street, probably in retaliation, one of Qui-Gon's huge hands makes its way into the back pocket of Obi-Wan's jeans.

At 18th Street, he starts _kneading_ , and Obi-Wan prays to whatever's listening that no one hears his eyes-squeezed-shut moan over the tired complaining on the tannoy.

Obi-Wan grabs that same hand and leads Qui-Gon out of the train by it at Christopher Street, the winter air a sudden calming shock to his system after the fetid wet heat of the tunnels. His apartment - well, technically Luminara's apartment, but she's half a world away and has been for months - is only a few minutes' walk away, at the top of four flights of stairs which he has gotten used to scaling with ease. It's worth it, too, for the wall of full-length windows and top-floor skylights paid for by her second degree in business, the stereo system to remind her of her music school days which takes up most of the living room.

Right now, though, it's mostly worth it for the heady thoughts Obi-Wan has of what'll happen in the bedroom, but it appears Qui-Gon has other ideas. They're barely inside, and Obi-Wan has had mere seconds to strip them both out of their coats, when Qui-Gon grabs him by a wrist and pulls him into his chest right there in the kitchen in order to kiss the stuffing out of him.

This, Obi-Wan could get used to.

The pads of Qui-Gon's fingers are rougher than his own, the scrape of his thumb just under the line of Obi-Wan's jaw leaving a swath of heat in its path.  And such as it is with any touch the man leaves upon his exposed skin, almost as if he is branding him somehow.

And Obi-Wan does not mind.

Qui-Gon backs him against the counter's edge, nudging him into one of the more angled corners.  The other man's hands engulf his upper arms, holding him in position for a thorough, explorative kiss that leaves Obi-Wan more than a little breathless.  Sliding his arms around Qui-Gon's neck proves to be more difficult than he imagined and he remedies this by hopping atop the counter space, as if he is a child and not a man in his thirties.

"You're quite tall," he says between kisses, as if Qui-Gon has no idea of this amusing dilemma.

"Am I?"  Qui-Gon's managed to pull the tail of his shirt partway from his pants, one finger skimming the waistband.  "I suppose I shall just have to get creative, then."

Obi-Wan thinks that perhaps they are headed into an area quite a bit beyond creative, given the fact that this has begun to transpire in the kitchen, of all places.  He has a brief moment of concern for the dishes and quite possibly the foundation of the counter, especially when Qui-Gon closes what little distance there is between them and all but inserts himself between Obi-Wan's thighs.

Hands traverse his sides beneath the fabric of his shirt with a rough, purposeful caress and he makes short work of the sweater and the button down beneath it, disposing of both as if they are passing thought.

There is no undershirt beneath Qui-Gon's sweater.  There is only him.  Obi-Wan blinks as if in surprise, running his fingers down the taut planes of Qui-Gon's torso just beneath the cable-knit fabric.

"Oh," he says.  "Oh my. . . "

Qui-Gon chuckles low in his throat.  "What were you expecting, exactly?"

"I don't know, really," Obi-Wan confesses.  "But I am quite sure it wasn't this."

The comment seems to please Qui-Gon, who nuzzles the sensitive spot just behind his ear and causes the fine hairs on his neck to come to blatant attention.  Among other things.

He has managed to pull Qui-Gon's sweater from his body and toss it aside, the actual skin-on-skin contact proving to be a dangerous endeavor judging by the way the other man's fingers are digging into his thighs through the material of his pants.

Arms slide around his body and his legs tighten around Qui-Gon's waist with an almost instinctual clutch.

"Hmm," the professor muses.  "I see the gamba has done wonders for your strength."  With a swift jerk, he pulls Obi-Wan into his arms as if he is a mere child, sweeping him from the counter.  "Now, why don't you come down from there?"

Obi-Wan has the brief, absurd notion of informing Qui-Gon that he hasn't the faintest idea of just how his strength might be, but he is far too distracted by the fact that other man has all but carted him into the living room and Obi-Wan gives up the pretense of romance novel-esque foreplay altogether.

Belts are loosened and discarded, pants are tugged away, and Obi-Wan does his best not stare at fully naked Qui-Gon Jinn and fails spectacularly.  Rather than give in to the urge to stammer like a fool, he saunters forward and takes a moment to run a hand down Qui-Gon's bare hip, his touch explorative and light.

Until it isn't.

His hand clearly has a mind of its own.

Qui-Gon's short gasp bleeds into a low-pitched vocal sigh and Obi-Wan wraps his fingers around the thickness of him for a teasing instant, as if testing to see just how much of his hand can actually manage the feat.

"I am trying to restrain myself from the indecency of taking you on this table, my dear one," Qui-Gon rumbles in his ear.

"Perhaps you should stop trying," Obi-Wan says.

But he leads Qui-Gon to the bedroom just the same rather than risk the fragility of Luminara's table.  His mere monthly stipend can't cover the cost of both food and new furniture.  Not to mention, there is far more space for him to explore Qui-Gon's body this way and the tangle of limbs and kisses is far more pleasant than the awkwardness accommodation for their height difference might be.  That's another experience for another time.

For now, he is satisfied with the mass of Jinn's body pinning him to the mattress, the smattering of kisses along the side of his neck, and the obscene way those large hands of his engulf his every limb with their calloused drag of fingers.

He's ridiculously content and buzzing with it, clenching around every bit of Qui-Gon he can reach. There's quite a lot he _can't_ reach, actually - they're really going to have to figure that out - but there's pressure in all the right places, he's losing his breath, and he's pretty sure that having come this far, neither of them are going to regret it. He arches his hips up, feels Qui-Gon's hand slide underneath him, and moans into Qui-Gon's mouth as long fingers start exploring between his legs.

"You," Qui-Gon says, his eyes narrowed and very, very blue, "are a tease. I hope you know that."

"Am I really?"

"I have my work cut out for me to keep you quiet, don't I?" Qui-Gon asks, and then, in a surge of movement he gently shoves Obi-Wan down into the pillow, pulls back, and lowers his head.

"Fuck!" Obi-Wan pants, his neck straining backwards, hands clutching at Qui-Gon's shoulders. "That'll - that'll do it - "

There is a finger pressing at him, first one, then two. It's been a while, but he hasn't forgotten how fucking good this feels, and the double stimulation of hands and very talented tongue ( _Fucking wind players_ , he thinks wildly) has him flapping out an arm towards the bedside table, struggling and mostly failing to keep his whimpers in check.

"I see you came prepared," Qui-Gon says, muffled but clearly amused.

Obi-Wan drops the lube and condom into the quilt in his haste to get his hands back in Qui-Gon's hair. "I'm a single thirty-something who just moved to New York City, of course I'm - ow!" Qui-Gon has broken off to bite him, not all that gently, on the inside of his thigh.

"Oh," Obi-Wan blinks. He's trembling all over at this point, as Qui-Gon's fingers settle further inside him. "Not single?"

He's rewarded with a kiss and the return of Qui-Gon's tongue, which makes his eyes roll back into his head. "Nnnfuck," he groans. "You're gonna - need to stop that."

"And I thought the youth of today were supposed to have stamina," Qui-Gon sighs, and the drag of his fingers as they pull out leaves Obi-Wan exhausted and gasping. But then Qui-Gon is kissing his way up Obi-Wan's chest, his knees being drawn up and nudged wide, and when he opens his eyes he's in a tent of Qui-Gon's long hair, looking up at the intensity in every genteel line of his face.

"Beautiful," Qui-Gon murmurs, and Obi-Wan truly can't believe his luck.

"I didn't come here thinking I'd get this," he says hazily. "I'm glad - "

"Hush," Qui-Gon says, something of the professor in his voice. "You think too much."

"Hypocrite."

"Imp."

It is now Obi-Wan's turn to give the other man's neck a sharp nip and he smiles as Qui-Gon gasps appropriately.

"What else can you do with that tongue . . ." Obi-Wan murmurs into the graying strands.

The now-familiar purring rumbles ebbs from somewhere deep within Qui-Gon's chest as presses himself against Obi-Wan with lascivious rub, his tongue flicking the shell of Obi-Wan's ear with a feather-light touch that is almost too delicate to be real.

"Have you any idea what double-tonguing is?"  Qui-Gon's dark voice queries.

A hand wraps itself around him and squeezes for emphasis, choking whatever answer Obi-Wan might have been considering into a hiss.

"I think I would-- _ooh!_ "  Obi-Wan arches into the twisting stroke of the hand and Qui-Gon silences his prattle with a masterful display of lips and tongue.

"I told you," Qui-Gon says.  "You _think_ entirely too much."

Somewhere amongst their banter, Qui-Gon has obviously managed to equip himself with both condom and lubricant and Obi-Wan has a moment of wondering just how missed this detail, but the thought is quashed as the other man pushes against him with the slow finesse of experience and consideration, which is a damn good thing considering just how –

"Oh _gods -_ "

Obi-Wan never been one for noise-making during sex, but Qui-Gon has the art of penetration down to a fucking science, as if he is attuned to the flex and accommodation of Obi-Wan's body in ways that are beyond instinctual.  He attempts to regulate his breathing, which is wavering between an erratic pant and a gasp, especially given the combination of Jinn's kissing and the generous, almost taunting strokes of his hand.  The man is everywhere at once, yet entirely focused, teasing yet somehow tender.

When Qui-Gon sinks himself to the hilt within Obi-Wan's body,  the younger man shudders with a quivering hitch of breath, his short nails digging crescents into Qui-Gon's broad shoulders.

Qui-Gon's breath is a flicker of heat against his ear.  "Are you alright?"

Obi-Wan nods through his panting.  "Don't stop," he says.

When Qui-Gon starts to move it is a full-body experience, rocking them both deep into the mattress - when he speaks his voice is tight and quick. "I've never heard you sing on your own," he breathes into Obi-Wan's neck, clutched close as he is by both of Obi-Wan's arms wrapped around his shoulders. "Shall I make you?"

"Jesus. I hope you're not expecting Mozart," Obi-Wan says, knowing that he's on the edge of full-on babbling. He cries out then, like it's been ripped out of him, as Qui-Gon's thrusts take on a new urgency in time with the hand he's got on Obi-Wan's cock, and everything starts to go warm and hazy.

"That's it," Qui-Gon whispers. "You and that lovely voice of yours..."

Obi-Wan might switch into operatic Italian at some point; he's not fully aware of language any longer, only rhythm, and of the fact that he's never fucked so loudly in his _life_. Qui-Gon starts kissing him again, open-mouthed and wet, and it makes him feel fucking idolized, like he is meant to be cherished.

It's a curiously romantic thought for his current situation, but he doesn't plan to let it go - even when, as his breath becomes so short that he can hardly draw it in any longer, Qui-Gon takes hold of his shoulders, flips them over, and drives up into Obi-Wan so hard that it's all he can do to white-out as he comes with a shout, writhing on Qui-Gon's chest.

He nearly misses Qui-Gon's orgasm before his vision returns to him, but it's as unmistakable as the man himself - a low groan, big, grasping fingers digging deep into Obi-Wan's lower back, a rush of heat. Obi-Wan planes his hands over Qui-Gon's forehead, his cheeks, his mouth, and settles finally with his nose in Qui-Gon's neck, already halfway drowsing.

"Do you always fall asleep _in coitus_?" Qui-Gon says what feels like a long time later, gently teasing. Obi-Wan makes a noncommittal sound into his hair, and Qui-Gon follows it with a chuckle. He'll feel Qui-Gon in the morning, he knows, and probably for quite a few mornings after - actually, he rather thinks that's an inevitability.

Practice does make perfect, after all.

 

*

**TBC**

*


	6. Duo, Finale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **WARNING for this chapter: alcohol abuse.**

*

It takes Qui-Gon rather longer than usual to drag himself from the dregs of sleep.  He glances towards the ceiling and upon failing to recognize the crown molding there, has a brief moment of panic. That is, until the heavy drape of an arm reminds him of it all.

This isn't his bed.  Hell, this isn't even his space.  The anxiety drains away into lazy, fulfilled contentment and he lolls his head to one side for a better look.

Obi-Wan is half-curled against him, features slack with slumber, breathing rhythmic and deep.  The angles of his face are softened into an ageless sort of youth and Qui-Gon forgets for a moment that the man is thirty-four.  He imagines that without the beard, he would look far too young and possibly deceptively innocent.

He chuckles to himself at the thought.

Grasping the edges of the blankets, he pulls them a bit higher to tuck around Obi-Wan's shoulders and the other man curls towards him with wordless mumble of sound.  Qui-Gon is all too happy to accommodate the need.  He shifts his body to gather Obi-Wan against his chest, smiling when they seem to fit together in an oddly perfect fashion, despite their physical differences.

"You're still here," Obi-Wan murmurs against his shoulder.

"Of course I am," Qui-Gon says.

A soft sigh escapes the other man and Qui-Gon does not try to analyze it.  Instead, he enjoys the moment for what it is, running an idle hand down Obi-Wan's side and back up again, the slow drag of his palm languid and gentle, as if performing a tactile memorization of the topography of Obi-Wan's body.

Somewhere in the depths of apartment, a cell phone is chirping with impatience and Obi-Wan raises his head just a touch as if he is so attuned to the sound that the response is automatic.

"Leave it," Qui-Gon suggests.

Obi-Wan nods and settles back into his embrace, fingers finding their way into Qui-Gon's hair for a moment before trailing their way down his shoulder and coming to rest on his chest.

The phone chimes again, but Obi-Wan does not stir in acknowledgment, a fact which is oddly pleasing to the professor.  His own phone is switched off and God-only-knows where, perhaps languishing in the pocket of his coat.  He has never liked being forced to carry it and is even less concerned with it now.  His focus is entirely taken with far more important things.

They drift for another five minutes before Obi-Wan lifts his head again with a groan and looks out at the living room through the open door, towards the source of the continuing chirps and buzzes. "Actually, I should - _some_ of them might be important."

"Hmm," Qui-Gon rumbles, sliding his hand further down until he reaches Obi-Wan's backside. "Are you sure I can't persuade you otherwise?"

"Oh, you most definitely can," Obi-Wan replies breathily, his pupils dilated. "But coffee."

"Brat," Qui-Gon grumbles, and lets him go. Obi-Wan throws the covers back over Qui-Gon before he leaves, and clearly makes a stop on his way to the kitchen - soft music starts to echo through to Qui-Gon, Mozart, [a tenor aria from _Cosi fan tutte_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ilD7XMEuq-M). He smiles to himself, making a note to thank this mysterious Luminara for the gift of her space at some point, and decides that the least he could do is get up and go out into the living room to listen to the maestro properly.

Obi-Wan is in his jeans but otherwise shirtless and bare-footed when he emerges, standing over the coffee maker in the kitchen with Qui-Gon's crumpled sweater and his own shirts still lying discarded at his feet, peering at the phone in his hand. Qui-Gon takes a regrettable moment to collect his own trousers - because he might have no concern about his looks for his own sake, but sitting in full view of the neighbors across the street from the magnificent bay windows stretches even his general disregard for such things. He settles into the sofa just as Ferrando hits his first high A, which is when Obi-Wan makes a noise of choked shock which is, unfortunately, completely out of key. Qui-Gon turns to see him standing halfway into the room, the handles of two mugs in one hand and the blasted phone in the other.

"There's a betting pool," Obi-Wan says vaguely, staring down into the phone as though it’s about to bite him.

"Oh?" Qui-Gon says, sternly telling himself not to laugh as Obi-Wan eventually moves and holds out one of the mugs to him - black and unsweetened, how did he know? Obi-Wan's is, by the looks of it, full of milk and probably an obscene amount of sugar. "For what, exactly?"

"Time, place, and position," Obi-Wan sighs, and this time Qui-Gon nearly spits out his first sip. "They're playing fucking _Clue_ with us."

Qui-Gon takes a moment to consider his next words. "Who's going to win?" he says eventually, and knows it was the right thing to say, as Obi-Wan's bare shoulders relax a fraction.

"Padme. I think. She said she was going for the sensible options." Obi-Wan has been scrolling through this particular text string for at least a minute - just how long have the Little Terrors been talking over and about him without reply? Then he looks up at Qui-Gon, and he sees that the trepidation has not disappeared from Obi-Wan's eyes in the slightest.

"I do have one text I should send," Obi-Wan starts out, and Qui-Gon shifts where he's sitting, holds out a hand, and pulls Obi-Wan down to sit next to him in the general belief that comfort will help this conversation along if nothing else will. "To Anakin. Asking him to keep his mouth shut around Palpatine."

Despite his inclination to calm, Qui-Gon can't help but feel a twinge of dismay at the sound of that particular name, and he brings his mug down from his mouth slowly, considering. The Dean of the Music Division is, unfortunately, a variable they absolutely need to keep in mind. Palpatine's only gradually-slowing skills as a violinist would make him formidable anywhere; his tendency to rule over whomever he can with an iron fist tightly gripped around rules and regulations makes him positively frightening, and into someone with whom Qui-Gon has, over the years, had far too many run-ins to count.

Now, it seems, his next run-in might have rather more important consequences.

"Anakin's his student?"

"He is. And he enjoys it, though it's hard work," Obi-Wan says, and there's something about his frown which Qui-Gon would guess is not about Palpatine's teaching style at all, but for the moment he'll let it slide.

"How would he feel about switching over to my lessons for a while?" Qui-Gon says, and again, knows he's said the right thing as Obi-Wan's eyes widen a fraction. "You did say he was impressive."

"Very much so." Obi-Wan smiles, suddenly, and it's like the sun has broken across his face. "You sentimental bastard."

He leans over and kisses Qui-Gon, and puts his mug down on the low coffee table so he can scoot closer. Before he knows it Qui-Gon's got both hands in Obi-Wan's hair and his mouth is trailing down Obi-Wan's neck, and Ferrando's got serious competition.

Obi-Wan laughs from where Qui-Gon's pulled his head back, and tugs at Qui-Gon's hands to peel them away. "Good morning, by the way," he says, with that oh-so-familiar shit-eating grin, and then he twists around and starts sliding further down the sofa until he's lying flat, his arms propping himself up over Qui-Gon's lap. "I don't remember saying that earlier."

"You certainly didn't," Qui-Gon says, one hand tangling in copper hair again as Obi-Wan nuzzles at the flat planes of Qui-Gon's stomach, biting gently at his hip. "Uppity _and_ rude. It's a wonder I put up with you."

"Indeed it is," Obi-Wan sniggers, and reaches sideways to pull down Qui-Gon's suddenly very uncomfortable zipper.

The button of his trousers soon follows and Qui-Gon has a brief moment of wondering just how he ever found the pants "comfortable" in the first place.  Perhaps it is because there was no manner of impertinent graduate around to test the theory.

"Well, now," Obi-Wan says.  "I would say the fact that you are pleased to see me is quite obvious."

Qui-Gon starts to chide him for such a horrid joke at this hour, but the other man's tongue has suddenly eclipsed the need for a quick-witted comeback.  His shoulders press into the softness of the couch with a rigid jerk, which obviously pleases the imp currently laving his tongue in lazy circles around the head of Qui-Gon's cock, as if testing a theory of his own.

He digs his fingers into the coppery hair and hopes like hell that his grip hasn't escalated to something painful when Obi-Wan switches tactics.  His lips form a seal that would be the envy of many a clarinetist and he takes far more Qui-Gon into his mouth than the professor could have ever expected.

Fingers knead their way past the base of his shaft into dangerous territory and Qui-Gon sucks in a hissing rendition of a breath.

"Tell me, _professor_ ," Obi-Wan purrs between alternating licks and absurd finger trickery.  "Have you any vocal talents yourself?"

Qui-Gon's only answer is a wordless groan punctuated by a series of almost comical gasps.  His hips arch to the whims of Obi-Wan's mouth and he grips the side of the couch with his free hand as if he means to tear the upholstery to ribbons.

It's barely been a handful of minutes and already, the burn in his core has reached clenching, critical proportions.  Obi-Wan's grip is performing some obscene rendition of massage-and-twist in tandem with whatever ever the hell he's managed with his tongue and the combination of it all proves too much.

Qui-Gon isn't prone to lusty vocalizations of any sort for any reason, but this rends a sharp cry from his throat that bleeds into a growling sort of groan and he forgets propriety and politeness for a moment to indulge it.  Thoroughly.

The experience leaves him a limp and panting heap upon the couch, feeling as if he has somehow sprinted the length of Manhattan.  Or perhaps, engaged in other marathon-like activity.

"Ah," Obi-Wan says from somewhere near his thigh.  "Most certainly _not_ Mozart."

Qui-Gon is still dizzy when Obi-Wan's phone rings, shrill and insistent. To his surprise, Obi-Wan picks it up - and then shimmies up Qui-Gon to sit astride his lap, leaning forward for a salty kiss.

"Breathe," he whispers, and then, before Qui-Gon can stop him, he answers the call... and puts the phone on speaker.

Little _bastard_.

"Good morning, Leia," Obi-Wan says pleasantly, holding the phone midway between him and Qui-Gon. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

" _Kenobi_ ," the girl says crisply. " _Is there anything you want to tell us?_ "

"I can't imagine what you mean." If Obi-Wan's voice were to become any more arch, he'd trip over his tongue.

There is the sound of a scuffle on the other end of the staticky line, and then a new young woman's voice floats up, breathily excited. " _Obi-Wan!_ " From the look of gleeful mirth on the aforementioned's face, this must be Padme. " _I bet last night, bed, missionary. Did I win?_ "

And then Obi-Wan raises both eyebrows, and tilts the phone towards Qui-Gon's mouth.

 _My god, I'm in over my head_ , Qui-Gon thinks happily as he leans forward. "Correct in _every_ detail," he rumbles.

An infernal, ear-splitting shriek bursts out of the phone - and then the line cuts off, and Obi-Wan is looking innocently at the screen.

"Curious," he muses. "They appear to have hung up on us."

Qui-Gon plucks the phone out of Obi-Wan's hand and tosses it somewhere into the sofa cushions. "Are you _trying_ to get the entire student body deeply and disturbingly involved in this relationship?" he asks.

Obi-Wan sighs happily as Qui-Gon pulls him down against him, and snuggles into Qui-Gon's chest - it is a perfect position, Qui-Gon realizes, to let him slide his hands down the back of Obi-Wan's jeans to keep him close, and so he does. "It's insurance. The more invested they are, the more leeway we'll get. Or something," Obi-Wan yawns, and then he pushes his face into the crook of Qui-Gon's neck and closes his eyes.

It's easy to doze like this, in the pale winter light starting to shine through the bay windows and with the warmth hissing out of the steam heaters. It's only when the CD of _Cosi_ winds to a stop in the stereo, and Qui-Gon's fairly sure they've missed lunch, that either of them feel like moving. Obi-Wan showers first; when Qui-Gon emerges from the bathroom after his turn he finds Obi-Wan sitting in damp hair and a t-shirt at the table behind the couch in the open-plan floor, huge headphones over his ears and his Matthew Passion score spread out before him. He's humming part of it - the gamba line in the [_Komm, Susses Kreuz_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Azsdat_Zx0c) \- and it makes Qui-Gon unaccountably want to know everything about him. Where and when he first picked up a cello, where he disappeared to after Juilliard and why, why now, why on earth _him_ and the Passion and the gamba and this, them, blissfully violating every code of conduct about teacher-student relationships (albeit between consenting and intelligent _adults_ , thank you very much, and in a place where grades are beyond insignificant).

It's not a matter of insecurity, for Qui-Gon. At least, he thinks not. So he walks up behind Obi-Wan, at least, puts his hands on oblivious shoulders, leans down to kiss the slender neck and wonders where to begin.

Obi-Wan glances up, his hand coming to rest on Qui-Gon's own for a moment as he slides the headphones off and puts them aside.

"Sneaky," he says, as if Qui-Gon has done something clever.

"I thought we were putting aside work for the day," Qui-Gon says.

Obi-Wan blinks up at him and he cannot help but notice that there is the slightest hint of green amongst the brightness of the blue.

"Did we decide that?"

Qui-Gon drops a kiss atop his head.  "I've decided for you."

Obi-Wan looks as if he certainly does not mind and is all too happy to push the music aside and give Qui-Gon his attention.

The professor pulls up a chair and takes a seat beside him, noting that the phone is now back upon the table near the headphones.  God only knows what's happened with that.  He nods towards it with a crooked smile.

"Your choice of friends is . . ."

"Unique?"  Obi-Wan supplies with a bit of a grin.

Not exactly the word Qui-Gon would use for it, but he nods just the same.  It isn't as if he makes a habit of socializing, really.  He much prefers the company of plants to people and has been accused of cultivating a small jungle upon his balcony during the warmer months, his kitchen a temporary greenhouse in the winter. There is a curious absence of greenery in this particular apartment, something he has always found to be odd.

"So," Obi-Wan says.  "I assume this is the part where we make polite conversation, yes?"

Qui-Gon chuckled.  "If you like."

His new lover is making this far easier than he anticipated, a fact for which he is also grateful.  Social graces might come easily to Qui-Gon, but that does not mean he enjoys attempting to read the cues and interpret the motives of others, despite the fact that he is quite good at it.  Things with Obi-Wan are easy.  Natural.  He shall have to a find a way to express this appreciation another time.

"Well, then."  Obi-Wan adopts a falsely serious expression, as if he is about to conduct an interview of sorts.  "Tell me, Professor Jinn, do you happen to know what 'fun' is and if so, how do you have it?  You know, aside from seducing unsuspecting graduate students."

Qui-Gon smirks, giving Obi-Wan's bare foot a swipe with his own.  "Brat," he says.

Obi-Wan's smile does not belie this assertion.

"Well. . ."  He straightens his posture, as if preparing to give a most serious answer.  "In my spare time, I enjoy secretly writing absurd, modern variations on themes by Baroque compositions, growing far too many flowers, herbs and ivies than should be practical, and practicing Tai Chi in the courtyard to further puzzle my students."  

"Is that all?"  Obi-Wan casts him a look as if he is a dreadful bore and Qui-Gon chuckles again.  "I suppose I should tell you that I'm allergic, then."

"To composition?"  Qui-Gon says with more of a smile than he's managed in some time.

Obi-Wan's impassive facade cracks.  "Only when written by students," he amends with a laugh.  "And most flowers."

Qui-Gon wants to elaborate on his opinion regarding not only the theory skills of most students, but also the student population itself.  However, he chooses to keep that thought private for the time being.

Obi-Wan leans closer, laying a hand upon Qui-Gon's wrist.  "You're very odd, you realize."

He flips his hand over, interlacing their fingers, voice dropping by a third.  "I see you've no complaints just yet."

"None at all," Obi-Wan says with all apparent sincerity, squeezing Qui-Gon's fingers gently within his. "I find my life to be full of intriguing oddities, these days."

"These days?" Qui-Gon prompts, and Obi-Wan smiles at the blatant fish.

"I would have thought them quite obvious. Jumping into bed with my professor and being surrounded by teenagers overly- and very intensely-interested in my well-being was not exactly what I'd imagined."

It's an evasion if ever there was one, but Obi-Wan doesn't seem anything other than relaxed, so Qui-Gon feels justified in pushing on. "What had you imagined, then?"

Obi-Wan settles back a little in his chair, propping his chin on the table with the hand that isn't being firmly kept on Qui-Gon's lap. "That I'd learn some new tricks and be back right where I'd started in two years' time." He doesn't sound bitter about it, curiously, but there is something wistful in his tone, as though he still thinks he deserves whatever it is he'd had. "I took a job straight out of Juilliard which I thought would be a good stepping stone - teaching at a private prep school upstate. Beautiful grounds, great kids once you got them to forget that their parents owned half the country." He looks up at Qui-Gon, then, and his smile twists into a smirk. "After ten years of losing track of friends and only finding an extra performance job every couple of months, one ends up feeling a bit... _kept_."

Which explains the pick-up concerts, the constant movement, the complete willingness to change and be swept up by any current, be they musical or in the shape of the Little Terrors. What Qui-Gon had thought was something so intrinsically joyful about Obi-Wan's musicianship now reveals itself to also be entirely necessary. He clears his throat cautiously. "And how are you finding New York now?"

"It's everything I remembered and more," Obi-Wan says gently, and his smile is consciously genuine enough to put Qui-Gon at his ease again. "I'm not sentimental enough to call it a new lease on life, but well - " he looks pointedly down at their entwined hands - "it seems to be turning out that way."

"I shall have to work on your appreciation of horticulture," Qui-Gon says seriously, and Obi-Wan bursts out laughing.

"Only if _you_ agree to certain terms."

"Oh?"

"Mandatory foodie trips on weekends, the occasional presence of very boisterous children who can't play Suzuki to save their souls, and exposure to Copland and Vaughan Williams _without_ complaint."

"Out-fucking-rageous," Qui-Gon deadpans, which sets Obi-Wan off again. In truth, all of those things strike Qui-Gon as the sort of chores he would normally run from ( _very fast_ ), but he's also very aware, as he leans forward and Obi-Wan's mouth opens eagerly beneath his, that he's far beyond the stage of thinking them obstacles. He's not going to lose this, he tells himself, for the world. Not even for the sake of escaping Britten and god-awful Brooklyn craft beers.

A hand skims his torso, appreciative fingers tickling the sprinkling of hair that trails past his navel and into his (rather wrinkled) pants.

"Is this the result of Tai Chi, then?"  Obi-Wan is only half-teasing, from the sound of it.

"Among other disciplines, yes," Qui-Gon rumbles.  "Surprised?"

"Perhaps a little."

The fact that the other man cannot seem to keep his hands to himself is both amusing and strange, but Qui-Gon is glad for it just the same.

"There are a few other things, you realize," he says to his amorous companion.  "If I am to endure your modernist American styling, we must work on your appreciation for tea, fresh air, and the ability to be silent and still for more than ten seconds at a time."  He delivers a thorough, languid kiss to Obi-Wan before he can open his mouth to object.  "I suspect the latter will the most difficult for you."

"I have spent a great deal of my time being stagnant," Obi-Wan reminds him and Qui-Gon shakes his head, as if the misunderstanding is adorable.  And truly, it is.

"Stagnant is not stillness," he amends.  "Stillness is ability to quiet your mind to the point where there is nothing more than the moment.  No past, no future.  Now."   He brushes away a lock of coppery hair that is audaciously clinging to Obi-Wan's forehead.  "You will find that your level of performance will increase to an astounding level that even Palpatine would envy."

Which is part of the reason the two fail to so much as agree on the temperature of a practice hall.  The Dean's focus has always been on what will be, not on what is.  Despite Qui-Gon's lack of enthusiasm for solo performances, his ability to do them with almost lackadaisical ease is infuriating to most.

"I suspect your friend Anakin could benefit from such teachings," Qui-Gon adds, stroking the edges of his beard with a thoughtful touch.

"Yes, well."  Obi-Wan glances to one side, as if remembering an unpleasant truth.  "There is much he could learn, if only he had . . ."

Obi-Wan's voice trails away and Qui-Gon gives his hand a squeeze, bringing the other man's gaze back to his own.  The flash of concern and worriment there is naked and apparent for longer than it should be, but Obi-Wan does his best to conceal it with an endearing smile.

It resonates with Qui-Gon in some dormant place he has long since ignored, perhaps from disuse or necessity.  There is no choice in clearing the dust from it now, however.  Obi-Wan has done a fine job of ensuring that with a simple look.

"Well, never mind that," Obi-Wan says.  "You have my attention for the day."  A finger traces Qui-Gon's collarbone.  "Now, whatever shall you do with it?"

"I think," Qui-Gon says slowly, and a smile quirks at the corner of Obi-Wan's mouth. "...I'm going to take you out."

Obi-Wan blinks. "Eh?"

"Out," Qui-Gon says firmly, enjoying himself immensely at the petulant frown that shades over Obi-Wan's face. "Exercise. Fresh air. Food. These are, as it turns out, necessities of life. Beyond the obvious of owning a complete set of [the Gardiner cantatas](http://www.amazon.com/Bach-Cantatas-English-Baroque-Soloists/dp/B00ETHPJ1U/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1432988037&sr=8-1&keywords=gardiner+cantatas), obviously."

"I seem to remember asking you what you did for _fun_ ," Obi-Wan grouses, but he's already half-standing and allowing Qui-Gon to pull him along. Qui-Gon rewards him with long, lingering kisses as he does up each button on Obi-Wan's coat, and nearly regrets his decision at the state into which they render both of them, but it's worth it when they make it to the bottom of the five flights of stairs and out into the cold for the way Obi-Wan is instantly glued to his side, a source of radiating warmth with his arm around Qui-Gon and his hand deep in Qui-Gon's jacket pocket.

At one point, waiting to cross a busy avenue as they wander east, Obi-Wan looks up from Qui-Gon's shoulder, sees Qui-Gon looking back, and stands up on his toes for a kiss, and Qui-Gon is struck by nothing less than bewilderment at the absurdity of it all. He hardly recognizes himself - he doesn't recognize this contentment, this world where he's suddenly this person, the lover of this man in this openly public way.

It's mid-afternoon on a Friday with winter dusk coming on fast, and Obi-Wan takes him through Washington Square Park, where the piles of snow over the grass are still relatively pristine in contrast to the ragged black sludge on the streets, and NYU students and ravenous pigeons flock in equal measure; he takes them to an absurdly-overpriced little cafe a bit further south where the furniture is made of wrought-iron and the paintings on the walls all look like they've come straight from a fin-de-siecle Viennese salon; he laughs at the face Qui-Gon makes at the frankly terrible coffee and drags him back west for hot chocolate so thick it sticks Qui-Gon's mouth closed instead, and laughs even more.

It is all utterly refreshing in ways Qui-Gon hasn't considered legitimate for a long time. By the time they've been outside for another hour and it's well past sunset, and Obi-Wan's ears are tingeing pink from the cold, Qui-Gon takes a left and decides that he's only hungry for very particular things, and that the table back at the apartment does indeed need to be put to especial use.

Obi-Wan is chilled beneath his lips, his coat obviously too thin or his skin simply not a good retainer of heat. Qui-Gon grasps his smaller wrists in his hands, keeps them held out to other side, pushes until Obi-Wan's backside hits the edge of the table and leans down to bite gently at a goosebumped collarbone.

"Curtains," Obi-Wan suggests on a gasp, and with a huff of impatience Qui-Gon concedes the point and complies - when he turns back from drawing them closed over the living room windows Obi-Wan is simply standing there waiting for him, hair disheveled and mouth and shirt slightly open, waiting for Qui-Gon to come back and bend him backwards with his hands above his head, which Qui-Gon is more than happy to do.

"Hmm," Qui-Gon muses as he kisses a path down Obi-Wan's neck.  "I do hope this table is sturdy."

He pauses at the pulse point near the base of Obi-Wan's throat, feeling the other man's heartbeat flutter just beneath his lips and smiles.

"Would you just--"  Obi-Wan starts to say, tugging at Qui-Gon's belt and the professor chuckles, a low and dark vibration from somewhere deep within his chest.

"Someone really should teach you the art of patience," he rumbles.

And takes his time stripping away the garments with careful, precise unbuttoning of shirts and pants, a slow tug of fabric here and there, until Obi-Wan is all but clutching at the sleeves of his sweater.

If Obi-Wan is expecting a quick, brutal encounter, he is sorely mistaken.  Qui-Gon leans over him, capturing his wrists with one hand and pinning them to the wood, making certain that Obi-Wan feels the heaviness of his body which seems at odds with the structure of the table.  He leaves no inch of flesh without the mark of his own, via touch or kiss.

Obi-Wan's body cinches tight around his fingers, as if eager for more than the mere act of foreplay and yet again, Qui-Gon moves at his own pace.

The table is the perfect height.  Qui-Gon can't remember this particular brand of fucking, but he is all-too-willing to enter the endeavor without trepidation.  It is both exciting and a bit strange and he indulges the whim of it as much as he is able.

Obi-Wan's shuddering, vocal groan is enough to tell him that whatever he's doing is certainly being done right.  Fingers grip the other man's hips, pulling their bodies flush and Qui-Gon pins the absent grasp of Obi-Wan's fingers back above his head where they belong.

His hair sweeps Obi-Wan's neck, curtains his face, and Qui-Gon takes a moment to trace the line of his jaw with his free hand.  He wonders just what he would look like without that beard and imagines that the clean lines of an unshaven face might be more beauty than he could bear, but he keeps the sentimental whimsy to himself.

With Obi-Wan's legs wrapping him a trembling grip, he sees to it that the man not only sings for him, but that the performance is Wagnerian. Hopefully, the walls are not too thin.  Or the floors, as the case may be.

Obi-Wan has regained all of his former heat, straining up against the hand on his wrists and the arm wrapped around his thigh. "Qui-Gon," he pants, finally, and he is hoarse and desperate and Qui-Gon has never before thought that his name could sound so lyrical. "I'm - "

Qui-Gon surges down to capture Obi-Wan's cry in his mouth as he arches into Qui-Gon's chest, coming between them having barely been touched. _So sensitive_ , Qui-Gon thinks giddily, and relishes the way the muscles beneath him subside into a glorious pliancy which means he is not far behind. He barely remembers to hold himself up far enough that he does not crush Obi-Wan beneath his weight; when he finally moves his hand from Obi-Wan's wrists he finds himself instantly clutched in taut, grasping arms, fingers sliding deep into his hair.

"I owe Luminara so much new furniture," Obi-Wan says mournfully, and Qui-Gon cannot help but laugh.

They find their way into bed, eventually and somehow; it's only then, as Obi-Wan sandwiches himself into Qui-Gon's side and leans up to slowly kiss him into sleep, that Qui-Gon feels the first intrusion of anything outside of themselves. It's not a problem at the moment, but he's worn the same clothes for two days; neither of them have touched their instruments for over twenty-four hours, a thing previously unimaginable. It's only Friday evening, but Monday, and the first proper test of whether this will actually work, seems far too close.

And then it's just past 2am, according to the little alarm clock on the bedside table, and for some reason Qui-Gon is awake. Only halfway so, and he's more than inclined to simply slide back into dreamlessness, but Obi-Wan is shifting from his side, and then his body heat withdraws, and Qui-Gon realizes, distantly, that it's because his damned phone is ringing again.

Obi-Wan's voice is whispered and tentative in the dark. "Hello?" A pause, and Qui-Gon turns his head to look hazily at his silhouette, sitting upright at the side of the bed.

And then Obi-Wan says "Where are you?", quiet and urgent, and he's getting up and reaching for the jeans he'd left tossed over his dresser. Qui-Gon stays still, eyes mostly closed, but he can't pretend any longer that there isn't unease uncurling in him, unbalancing his calm.

"Stay there," Obi-Wan says - he holds the phone away from him only for a moment so he can pull on a sweater over his bare torso before pressing it to his ear again. " _Stay there_. I'll be five minutes."

He turns back, then, and Qui-Gon stays still, hopefully approximating sleep, as Obi-Wan leans over him - whether he recognizes Qui-Gon's wakefulness is unclear, but it seems to makes no difference to the tenderness of the hand on Qui-Gon's forehead, brushing back his hair as Obi-Wan presses a scratchy kiss to his cheek.

There is no chance in hell, as Obi-Wan disappears through the bedroom door and closes it behind him, that Qui-Gon will be going back to sleep now. When he gets up and goes to the small window in the bedroom wall and peers down, Obi-Wan is already outside on the pavement - it takes only a moment of wrestling to open the iron-framed window, and the shock of cold air completes Qui-Gon's return to alertness as he watches Obi-Wan step into the traffic, hailing a taxi. It's very early on Saturday morning in the Village, which means, of course, that cabs are plentiful and busy; Obi-Wan is clearly in haste, and the street is loud, and so he's already speaking as he folds himself into the back seat of the first yellow car which swerves in his direction, and the order of _Corner of 20th and 9th_ floats up to Qui-Gon as clearly as if Obi-Wan was in the room with him.

Qui-Gon closes the window, shrugs the quilt he had dragged from the bed closer around him, and considers. If he follows, it won't just be his calm he'll be risking. There is the matter of privacy, first and foremost, and the fact that, with Obi-Wan no doubt having taken his keys with him, Qui-Gon's absence will not go unnoticed. But there is concern, too, and worry coursing through him, and not a little hint of what he is ashamed to realize is suspicion.

 _In for a penny_ , he thinks slowly, and smiles grimly to himself when the remainder of the proverb comes to him and he decides that if Obi-Wan can handle the strangeness of Qui-Gon Jinn, he should be glad to accept whatever it is Obi-Wan Kenobi has in store. He dresses quickly, closes the door of the apartment firmly behind him to make sure it locks, and finds himself with his own taxi within moments of stepping out onto the street.

The corner of 20th Street and 9th Avenue looks unremarkable, to say the least - genteel, even, with its Brooklynite brownstones and modern condo development and the elevated shadow of the High Line park looming overhead. But it is loud, too, as Chelsea must inevitably be, and it is not hard to pick out the apartments where the residents and large groups of their friends are burning the midnight oil. Qui-Gon waits uncertainly on the corner after paying his driver, chin sunk down into his collar for warmth, breath puffing out into the air, and wonders, not for the first time in the last fifteen minutes, what on earth he thinks he's doing.

And then the door to a building fifty feet or so away opens and two stumbling shadows come pouring out, and it's all-too-easy, already, for Qui-Gon to recognize Obi-Wan's shape, currently acting as a bulwark for the unfortunate draped over his shoulders.

"Padme _hung up_ on me," the skinnier shadow wails, and Qui-Gon blinks, dread instantly erupting in his mind.

 _I just accepted **this** as my student_ , he thinks, horrified, as Anakin slumps down onto clumsy hands and knees and Obi-Wan cannot help but follow.

"I can hardly blame her, Anakin," Obi-Wan says, clipped and stern - but there is worry there, too, and an astounding amount of care as he cradles Anakin's head into his shoulder. "You've _got_ to - " he trails off, and lets out a long breath, and Qui-Gon senses that this argument has been had many a time, often enough that having it no longer holds any meaning or force. "Can you walk? We'll get you home, and then - "

"Don't go," Anakin mumbles, and then he jerks and retches, and Qui-Gon has to turn away from the sudden miasma of sour beer.

"You little ass," Obi-Wan sighs. "You owe me a new pair of jeans."

"Yeah," Anakin says miserably, and then both their voices are retreating - Obi-Wan's gotten Anakin upright, and together they shamble back towards the corner. Qui-Gon turns, shoves his hands in his pockets, and gets moving - far enough away that he is not seen, far enough away that he can see when they have gotten into another taxi and pointed it uptown.

It takes nearly half an hour for another cab to deposit Qui-Gon at his own home, a rent-controlled flat on the Upper East Side which now, in the dead of night and darkness and absence of Obi-Wan, feels entirely too empty. He doesn't turn on any lights; he finds the streamlines of his racked oboes and bassoons in the dark, refamiliarizing himself with their straight lines and cold metal keys; he fills a glass of water in the kitchen and tips it gently into the pots of plants on his windowsills that need it the most.

Sleep, in the bed that is now too wide and too cold, is a very, very long time coming.

*

**TBC**

*


	7. Duo, Coda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **WARNING, this chapter: aftermath of alcohol abuse.**

*

Daylight is an unwelcome intrusion that filters through the flimsy curtains like visual acid, searing him awake.  The lumpy crumple of blankets beneath his body is unfamiliar and strange and he has a moment of panic wondering just where the hell he might be.

_It's his couch.  His apartment._

His relief is short-lived once the groggy infusion of ‘hangover plus lack of sleep’ creeps in.  That, and the realization that it is nearly noon.   Perhaps there had been more sleep that he thought, except it wasn't really sleep, now was it?

He toys with the idea of sitting up, attempts about two inches of separation from the couch cushion, and flops back onto his side with a groan.  He swears to whatever deity might be listening that he will never drink again and knows that the sentiment is unconsciously tagged with ‘this weekend.’

_Pathetic._

"Ah, well.  I see you've managed to survive the night."

Anakin rubs at one eye and blinks.

"Padme?"  he says.  Hopes.

"Hardly."

This time, the groan is of a more pointed variety.  " _Fuuuuuck_."

"Indeed."

Something cold drapes over his forehead and he shifts his gaze into focus in order to lift a hand to keep there.

"You had best stay there a while longer," the dreadfully familiar voice says in such a pleasant-as-fuck fashion, that Anakin wants to break something.  "I'm quite tired of emptying that garbage can.  I hadn't the faintest idea a person your size could manage to drink enough to--"

"Could you not?"  Anakin waves a hand to silence the other man, hoping he will keep the rest of the details to himself.

Not that Anakin can remember any himself.  Like just how he got on this couch.  Or why in the name of fuck Kenobi was sitting there beside him.  Pantless, no less.

"Did..." he pauses, licking suddenly dry lips.  "Did Padme call you?"

"No," Kenobi says.  " _You_ did."

Now, Anakin is certain that this must be some kind of alcohol-induced nightmare.

" _Me?_ " he repeats.

Kenobi doesn't answer.  He's gotten up to grab his phone, which is buzzing on the coffee table like an angry hornet.  He walks some short distance away, his voice a hushed murmur of sound and Anakin wonders just who it might be and has a hope/dread moment of wondering if it might be Padme.

"Thank you," he hears Kenobi say.  "I appreciate it.  Right, yes.  Good."

It takes him another minute to realize that the phone Kenobi is talking into is actually his own.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he hisses as the other man comes back into the room, this time mysteriously wearing what looks like a rather damp pair of jeans.

"As much I would like to stay here and watch you suffer for your idiocy all afternoon, I'm afraid I have things to attend to," he says.  "But fear not.  You'll have someone here shortly to give you a hard time just the same."

Kenobi's words are light despite the reprimanding nature of them and Anakin senses genuine worry beneath the facade, which is just weird.  Booted feet shuffle into his line of vision and he manages a glance up.

The other man looks as tired as Anakin himself feels, his hair a disheveled mess of copper that flops out in nearly every direction, his shirt a rumpled excuse for casual attire.  It is his expression which is most difficult to endure, calm yet creased with concern.

He doesn't want Kenobi's pity or anyone else's, for that matter.  Pretending as if the sun is too much to bear, he feigns shielding his face with one hand and closing his eyes.

"Why'd you answer my phone?" he grumbles because he can think of nothing else to say.

"Because you have Ahsoka's number and I do not," Kenobi says, as if the reasoning is obvious logic.

" _Ahsoka?_ "  Another groan.  "You fucking called _Ahsoka?_ "

"No,"  Kenobi chides him, as if he is quite the idiot.  " _You_ did.  Seems that somewhere between shouting and crying hysterically, you lost the connection with her and she's been trying to get you ever since."

Anakin manages to push himself into a sitting position this time with far too much effort and runs a trembling hand through his unruly waves.  "Is she... is she mad at me?"

Fuck, he sounds five.

"Apparently not mad enough to ignore you," Kenobi says.  A knock at the door sounds and he glances up.  "I suspect that's her now."

"Tell her I'm not here," Anakin says stupidly.

Kenobi only shakes his head.

Anakin flops back against the couch, clutching his pillow over his face as if it will somehow save him, unable to make out just what the two are saying to each other and resisting the urge to hum loudly to make certain it stays that way.  His stomach is insisting that any further movement will be a fatal mistake, so he lays as still as possible until the door shuts.

A hand snatches the pillow from his face and he drapes an arm over his eyes with a grumble.

"I can't _believe_ you, Ani."

"I'm not in the mood," he grumbles.

"Is that right?"  The hand wraps around his wrist and pries his arm from his face.  "Well, I guess that's just too damn bad."

He knows what's coming.   _How could do this again?  Wasn't last time enough?  What about the time before that?  He's going to get kicked out Julliard.  Lose his scholarship.  Alienate his friends.  And Padme._

But she doesn't say that.  Instead, she sits beside him, sifts her fingers through his sweat-dampened hair, and sighs.

It's a shaky, long-suffering sound coupled with a touch that is too gentle for him to deserve.

"You scared me," she says.  

Her voice is small, almost distant somehow.  He swallows hard and says nothing for a moment, not because he cannot think of the words, but rather because he fears what he might actually say in their place, should he choose to open his mouth.

"I'm sorry," he manages at last, hating the way his voice sounds like the rasp of a dry bow over rusty strings.

He wonders just how many ‘sorrys’ he has left to give before their credit runs out.

 

*

On a whim, and partly to stave off the inevitability of the very sheepish and awkward conversation in his future, Obi-Wan goes massively out of his way to pick up his cello at Juilliard before going home. The building is mostly quiet except for those students who are diligent practicers and outsiders who are parachuting into Alice Tully Hall for a special concert series; Qui-Gon's office is quiet and dark, and Obi-Wan can only sigh at the sight of the favored oboe sitting quietly in its closed case on the desk, right where Qui-Gon had left it what seems like an age ago.

When he finally arrives back at Luminara's apartment at two, he finds it quiet and empty and is unaccountably disappointed. Unaccountably because there is no reason whatsoever why he should have expected Qui-Gon to still be there; disappointed because already it feels unnatural to not have him near. There are enough reminders of him - the disheveled couch cushions and bedsheets, the slight skew sideways of the table - to pierce through Obi-Wan's exhaustion and do damage. His absence hurts.

He puts the cello down, yawning, and pulls out his phone - and stands there staring stupidly at it for a full minute until he realizes he doesn't even have his supposed lover's damn number.

And because it's Qui-Gon, of course, there's nothing beyond an email address on his faculty webpage. Obi-Wan types out a brief message to it regardless - _Sorry, emergency, number?_ \- and his own digits, and in the wake of two hours of sleep and ten hours of coaxing a seventeen-year-old past the possibility of needing an ER, finds himself incapable of much more.

Three hours later, he wakes in the dark, sleepily tangled in a quilt on the sofa, to find that his phone has fallen out of his hand and is vibrating sulkily into the floor.

"H'lo?"

" _Quite an emergency, I take it_ ," Qui-Gon begins, and though the words themselves might be unkind there is no malice or negativity in Qui-Gon's voice, and Obi-Wan lets himself flop back into the couch with relief.

"Quite, yes," he hedges - he may only be half awake, but he's nevertheless very well aware that quite beyond his own involvement, Anakin's issues don't deserve or merit being dragged into the open with any other witnesses. "I'm so sorry."

" _No need. My plants were missing me._ "

"Can I see you?"

" _Not tonight,_ " Qui-Gon says gently, and Obi-Wan fights hard against that same pang of regret. " _The Philharmonic season stops for no man. Tomorrow?_ "

"Lunch," Obi-Wan says firmly, regaining some of his confidence. "I know a place near NYU."

" _Until then_."

In the brief hours of wakefulness Obi-Wan has left to him - because the sleep he has gotten is refreshing, but he's feeling every one of his thirty-four years as the events of the previous night creep up on him - he straightens the table, puts the Matthew Passion back on the stereo, and drowsily makes progress towards the memorization of his two gamba arias. He's always found it far too easy to fall asleep in winter months, as darkness encourages him quickly towards it; when he wakes again his room is still pitch-black, but it's five a.m. and he's finding himself quite desperate for the return of routine. Who would have thought, he thinks as he makes tea and stares down onto the Village on an equally-tired dawning Sunday, that he'd miss a teaching load of ten students and nearly twenty hours a week?

He plays through the first three Bach Suites without pause to wake himself up before quickly showering and dressing for the sprinkling freezing rain outside. The restaurant near Washington Square Park is Italian and has a covered interior courtyard; Qui-Gon has gotten there first and is sitting statuesque and calm in a corner among the other Sunday-relaxed diners.

Obi-Wan keeps his hands in his pockets as he makes his way over and stands uncertainly by what would ostensibly be his chair. "Hello there."

"Hello," Qui-Gon says politely, and looks Obi-Wan up and down with a glance which is definitely and blessedly amused. "One tends to sit and wait for service in an establishment such as this."

Despite himself and his usual urge towards apology, Obi-Wan finds himself smiling as he unbuttons his coat and settles into his chair.

"It occurred to me," Qui-Gon says casually, putting aside the menu he'd been perusing, "that we should discuss tomorrow, and the days thereafter. Our feelings on the establishment at Juilliard are, I gather, rather similar, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't be aware of the potential.... misunderstandings."

Obi-Wan sits up a bit straighter.  He'd rather hoped for more pleasure than business, but Qui-Gon is correct in his need to bring things to the forefront early on rather than deal with it as it may come.

"There is a certain level of, how shall we say, _discretion_ that we might need to discuss," Qui-Gon says.

Obi-Wan bites his lower lip a bit and takes a sip of the customary water that has been so graciously provided for him. "I realize that perhaps I have teased you a bit about the girls and their whims regarding the two of us," he says.  "But-"

"It isn't the girls that concern me," Qui-Gon interrupts, his voice gentle but firm.  "There are far more influential individuals."

Obi-Wan nods.  Like individuals that control funding and stipends.  Individuals that determine placement and assignment.

"Palpatine," he says.

It is now Qui-Gon's turn to nod.  "I can't imagine that he will take kindly to my teaching Anakin, should it come to that."  He flicks his gaze upward to the draping greenery, an odd sort of smile playing at the corners of his mouth at the sight of it before he focuses on Obi-Wan again.  "And of course, there is the matter of favoritism where you are concerned."

"Ah."  Obi-Wan fiddles with the edge of his menu and reminds himself that he is not, in fact, a child and that he should stop fidgeting like one.  "But... you were considering me for certain things before we..."  His words trail into suggestion as he lifts his gaze, eyebrows raised.

"Of course," Qui-Gon says, as if the suggestions is as amusing as it is ridiculous.  "But I can assure you, it may not look that way to others.  I am going to have to treat you as I would any other student, my dear one.  Surely you must know this."

"Yes, yes, absolutely."  Obi-Wan feels the slightest hint of color rise in his cheeks at the absent term of endearment, but he says nothing of it, quashing his moment of giddy teenage nonsense into ‘responsible adult status.’ "I would expect nothing less."

"There is a line between the professional and the romantic," Qui-Gon continues. "I cannot say that I have all of the answers, nor have I asked myself every question that I should at present." He tents his fingers together at the tips and tilts his head. "And I seem to be doing quite a bit of the talking.  What might you be thinking at this point, hmm?"

"I think the door to your office needs to stay open for the foreseeable future," Obi-Wan says frankly, and Qui-Gon lets out a brief jolt of laughter, reaching out under the table to grab Obi-Wan's fingers, stilling them where they had been restlessly tapping his knee in some strange approximation of the prelude runs he had been playing half an hour before. "And I think that if we want allies, you should speak to Mace."

That brings a look more of surprise to Qui-Gon's face. "Would this news not be better coming from you?"

"He knows me," Obi-Wan says, shaking his head with a nostalgic grin. _All too well_ , he thinks vaguely, remembering for a brief, terrifying instant just what it had felt like to be eighteen and be taken under the casual wing of a senior trumpeter who had been, frankly, far too cool not just for school, but for the entire damn city. "He'll want to hear it from you, rather than from the rumor mill. He'll need to decide what he thinks of you."

"Honestly," Qui-Gon says grumpily, and Obi-Wan knows what he's thinking - that on some level this is a ridiculous rigamarole, that their circumstances are not ones which should garner this much attention.

But he also knows that it matters. It matters a hell of a lot. And it's not himself he's concerned for, so much - despite his connections he's earned his place at Juilliard fair and square, and it isn't in the school's interests to have rules that are bent towards decimating its own student body for perceived or even actual sins.

They are, on the other hand, very much oriented towards protecting the school against any perception of abuse by the faculty, and adjuncts, of course, no matter how valued or longstanding, aren't exactly the most difficult people to hire or fire. He tightens his fingers around Qui-Gon's, and wonders whether he should put these worries into words; but he can tell by the look of acceptance in Qui-Gon's expression that his lover is already aware of these things, and more preoccupied with working through their consequences than questioning their existence.

"Talking to Mace," Qui-Gon muses, and despite his well-known aversion to collegiality Obi-Wan can tell that he's intrigued by the possibility of this connection. "Very well. Anything else?"

"I think we can get away with pretty much anything once we get south of Columbus Circle," Obi-Wan grins, starting to get an inkling that you know, this might just work.

Qui-Gon nods at him, eyes twinkling with quiet mirth. "And what's our northern boundary?"

"72nd."

"Deal. And your Little Friends?"

"I trust Padme," Obi-Wan replies, and means it, after a brief break in the conversation as their waitress arrives to take their orders. "She's a tad older than the others, and a hell of a lot more mature. Anakin's a loose cannon but will generally want to follow her lead - and Leia's already too invested in observing us like an anthropological experiment to resort to anything like the rules. There are others, but none I can think of who would hold a grudge against me for anything."

"It's still a bit alarming," Qui-Gon says, with another laugh and a shake of his head, "but as ever, one must concentrate on the here and now and what must be dealt with.

"I will have to audition you, of course," he adds, his thumb brushing a calm sweep across Obi-Wan's kneecap. "The Suites are our joint semester project for you, but you will be one among a few others when it comes to the gamba and continuo sections in the Passion."

"Do these others have the benefit of the tutelage of someone of your stature?" Obi-Wan asks lightly.

"Sadly not." There is more than a little bit of smugness in Qui-Gon's tone which makes Obi-Wan want to giggle. "And I have very high standards."

Obi-Wan thinks to himself for a minute that perhaps this is more amusing than Qui-Gon might mean it to be, but keeps his thoughts on the matter to himself for the time being.

The rest of lunch passes in a sort of companionable silence, as though they've both realized that they will have more than enough time for conversation later, and much later, and even later than that. When they step outside the half-snow has stopped, and Obi-Wan nearly startles at the warmth of Qui-Gon's hand suddenly enveloping his own. It's like a flashpoint between them as they walk, a billboard proudly displaying their connection, and makes Obi-Wan flush happily down to the roots of his hair.

They walk up Fifth Avenue with, it seems, very little direction in mind. Obi-Wan's starting to become very aware of just how much Qui-Gon seems to need to be out-of-doors, and thankfully Obi-Wan's coat and Qui-Gon's bulk are warm enough to keep him going and distracted from the fact that he, on the other hand, tends to sink into abject misery at winter's persistent cold. Nearly an hour later, they're standing at the south edge of Central Park; and from there, it's an easy enough walk to a bustling Columbus Circle, where Obi-Wan, deciding he'd better get used to their new rules, buys a coffee and sits on a bollard waiting for Qui-Gon to make the short trip to Juilliard and back with his oboe case finally firmly clamped under his arm.

"Tomorrow," Qui-Gon says with a gentle smile when he returns, his chilled cheek pressing to Obi-Wan's ear. "Yes?"

"Tomorrow," Obi-Wan agrees, and tilts upwards to pull Qui-Gon down into a kiss meant for the whole City to see.

*

**TBC**

*


	8. Interludes in F# minor

*

Mace Windu's ten o'clock theory class is known as The Horror. It is a rite of passage as much as a repository for all the fears and failures of every freshman; it is both an ordeal and, once completed, a bloody badge of honor.

This particular semester, he's fairly sure his fail rate will be at least 40%. Of the ones who find it easy, only Skywalker makes it look effortless; of the middling, only Organa displays a decent rate of improvement. The washouts he barely has time for, and treats them as such - because for fuck's sake, it's only simple arithmetic and memorization, and yes, he might have been the best jazz improviser on the island of Manhattan, but if they thought that he was going to give them a pass on learning the rules they had to learn before they could break them, they were to be thoroughly disappointed.

He's done oiling the valves on his trumpet for the moment, compressing the top of each in rapid succession to make certain the fingering is smooth and effortless.  The bell is pristine, the gleam of the metal a pleasing comfort to behold.

His satisfaction is short-lived by a knock upon his office door, not the timid wrapping of an uncertain student, but a rhythmic, authoritative sound.  Fuck, he hopes it isn't Palpatine this early in the morning.

"Yeah?" The word isn't exactly an invitation, but the door opens just the same. Mace glances up from his morning trumpet care with a frown.

"Professor Jinn," he says.  His gaze sweeps the drab darkness of Jinn's pants, eyes up the strange excuse for a shirt he's wearing which is only half-disguised by his coat.  Some kind of... what the hell is that, a tunic?

_Goddamn weirdo..._

"Dr. Windu," the other man addresses him by title, which is more than Mace bothered to do.

"What can I do for you."

It isn't a question so much as a hurry-the-fuck-up-and-tell-me-what-you-want statement.

Jinn closes the door behind him which doesn't improve Mace's mood or his assessment.  Instead, he sits behind his desk and steeples his fingers, giving Jinn the eye as if trying to pin him to the chair, but Jinn doesn't take the bait. Instead, he settles himself across from Mace with a sort of lazy grace that suggests he has all the time in the world to play this game, which is just fucking irritating.

"I won't waste your time," Jinn begins.

"Good," Mace says and doesn't even try to stop himself.

"But I thought it important that you hear this from me," Jinn continues, as if Mace hasn't spoken.

Mace leans forward just a touch. "This better not be some student-related grade groveling," he says. "Because you know I don't have time for that."

"Please," Jin says, as if he's gone mad. "I would never presume to tell you how to torture a student."

That makes Mace smile for a fraction of an instant. He's heard all about Jinn's particular brand of torture and while the man himself might reek of eccentric old-school weirdness, his methods are legendary, if not a bit frightening.  Mace can appreciate that.

"Go on," Mace prompts with a roll of his hand.

Jinn fixes him with such a look of casual ease that Mace feels the need to brace himself for whatever the hell Jinn is about to say. _Better not be about some student's jazz studies interfering with all kinds of Baroque bulls -_

"Your cellist friend, Obi-Wan,"  Qui-Gon says.  "We've taken a fancy to each other."

If Mace's eyebrow could arch any higher, it would skitter right over his bald head.

" _Kenobi?_ "   More disbelief than necessary colors his tone and gets a handle on that shit real quick.

"That's the one," Jinn says.

Mace points a finger at him. "He put you up to this, Jinn?"

The professor folds his hands in his lap, expression an unreadable neutral mask as usual.  "I assure you that I am most serious."

Mace sits back in his chair. Runs a hand over his head. "What the _fuck..._ " he mutters.

"What the fuck, indeed," Jinn says.

Mace narrows his eyes at the implied joke and tells himself that _hell_ no, he is not letting his brain touch that with a hundred-foot pole. "And I need to know this _why_ , exactly?" he drawls.

Jinn's face is full of sanctimonious bullshit innocence. "Obi-Wan seemed to think that you would be a - hm - bulwark of sorts against the Powers-That-Be, should any unpleasantness arise over this arrangement," he says, as though discussing the weather. "Though I can assure you that nothing of the sort will occur on our own account, of course. I can't speak for the student body."

He's going to go through his mental store of blackmail on Obi-Wan immediately. Like, _now_. "That little _ass_ ," he grouches, though as soon as he says it he knows Jinn is aware he's won, because there's a smile on the other professor's face which is far too damn understanding and smug for anything else to have happened.

"Indeed he is. May we count on you?"

" _He_ can count on me," Mace says, pointing out a threatening finger again. " _You're_ asking a hell of a lot, Jinn."

"I understand completely," Qui-Gon says, still with his hands folded in that damn calm little pile on his lap. Probably has something to do with his meditation crap. "And I thank you."

Mace tilts his head and looks Jinn up and down. "I should warn you, you're not his type."

"Oh?" Jinn doesn't seem worried at all, which is annoying. Even when he's just messing with someone, Mace generally likes to get a bit of a rise out of them. "Perhaps you are speaking from previous experience?"

 _What an **actual** ass_ , Mace thinks murderously. "Me? Nah. Though I suppose he did always go for the tall ones."

"I was laboring under the impression that you only knew each other for a year."

Mace grins toothily. "That's right. Still got to know his type. Most people did."

"How interesting," Qui-Gon murmurs, and Mace realizes with a sick sort of fascination that Jinn means every syllable.

When Jinn finally gets up to leave, he gives Mace a fucking weird little _bow_ which somehow, given his general appearance, doesn't seem strange at all. _Fucking baroque players, fucking wind players, cellist assholes -_

He has his phone out before he's even thought of what to type to Obi-Wan. He settles for ' _let me show you where you should stick your fucking endpin_ ' and decides that, in the ten minutes he's got before The Horror, he desperately needs some fresh air and a certain act of cleansing.

Thankfully, Yoda is always happy to provide.

*

He has the auditorium to himself.  Han has always fancied practice rooms to be an absurd contradiction, because who the hell practices in a padded box unless they're off their nut? Or Anakin Skywalker.

Propping his feet upon the seat in front of him, he gives his guitar an idle strum, briefly considers practicing the Bach [_Partita in E major_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3VOkrddp6M8), and then proceeds to give John Lennon's finest a Baroque makeover instead. If the guitar prof actually gave a damn about what Han was doing with his 'spare time,' he never said as much.  Besides, he and Vos might have shared a few jam sessions together. Hallucinogenic substances may or may not have been involved.

Lennon's got some decent chord progressions, but Han sees a need for improvement and congratulates himself on a damn fine job when he somehow manages to channel it all into a jazzy improve of something between a Bach cello suite and a little bluegrass funk.

"Is _this_ what you do with your time?"

He glances up from his strumming, but doesn't stop the music, a crooked smile edging his lips. There she is again, all prim and proper looking in her light grey trousers and cream colored sweater, that dark hair of hers hanging over one shoulder in a thick plait.

Stilling his hand for a second, he looks her up and down, smirks when he notices the knee high riding boots, and goes back to tickling the nylons. "I like you better with your hair down."

As expected, Leia straightens with a huff and what he swears is a little stamp of her foot before she marches over to where he's sitting and shoves a finger in his face.

"You are _not_ supposed to be in here," she says.

He teases a grace note-infused flourish out of one of Lennon's more boring passages and regards her with the same smart-assery as before.

"Says who?" He lets loose a scoffing sort of snort of laughter. " _You?_ "

Leia folds her arms across her chest and sears him with such a look of a disdain that he has to pretend the minor scale mistake he makes is absolutely on purpose to avoid bursting into laughter.

"I'm the _only_ student with a key to this auditorium," she informs him for the fifth time in the past two weeks, as if this is a 'reason' or some shit.

"Well," Han says.  "Aren't you just the most special princess in the department."

A hand shoots out to grab Han’s wrist, tweaking it away from the fret board and to an extreme left.

"Don't," she says, "call me _princess_."

"Sorry, Majesty Most Gracious," he amends. "You wanna give me my hand back now?"

Leia’s eyes narrow and she tosses his appendage back at him hard enough to almost cause him to slap himself, which is just hilarious.

"Didn't you wear that shirt yesterday?"  she asks.

He strums an idle chord and smirks. "Maybe I like this shirt."

The finger is in his face again and he resists the urge to return the grabbing her hand favor and stick it between his lips.  Just to see what she would do and just how much she'd like it.  Because he knows she would.

"You had better show up for the Brandenburg rehearsal today," she says.

"I hope you practiced this time," he says with a lazy drawl. "Wouldn't want to embarrass you again."  

And that does it.  She does her best to look as indignant as possible, draws herself up to her full, unimpressive height, and does an abrupt about-face on her left heel, as if this time, he's really gone too far. This time, he's _really_ pissed her off. This time, she _really_ means it.

_Yeah, right._

Han goes back to Lennon as she flounces away and then switches to [Clapton](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fX5USg8_1gA), silently replacing ‘Layla’ with a different name.  

*

Leia doesn't get far with her anger - or at least, not as far as she would have wanted to, despite the crowded corridors between class periods and her bodyguard of the day, Mr. Antilles, trailing silently in her wake. Running face-first into a certain ginger bastard of a cellist, who has lost her quite a lot of money on a very particular bet, tends to put a decent stop to her stomping rampages.

"Ow," Obi-Wan says politely, rubbing at the collarbone she's run her nose into, which just makes her even angrier at the reminder that she's shorter even than _this_ asshole. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

He looks positively luminous. As if the sun is shining out of his ass, which given the context of his little trick the other day on the phone probably isn't far off. _Bastard, bastard, bastard, you're all bastards!_ "I'll give you some fucking pleasure," she snarls, and moves threateningly enough towards implying that she'll throw her entire guitar case at him that he adopts a far more appropriate expression of general trepidation.

"I do hope I'm not the cause of this," he says weakly.

"Well you certainly haven't _helped!_ " she blusters. "You owe Padme and I _all_ the dirt and coffee for approximately the next ten years - "

He has the decency to look sheepish through his laugh. "How is she?"

Leia's almost relieved to refocus her frustration away from a pair of grown men acting like idiots over each other, or examining too closely just how _she's_ been acting over a certain peevish, scruffy, gangly, unbearably insufferably attractive vagabond guitarist. "How do you think? One minute she hates him, the next she thinks she'll save him. It's not great."

"No, it isn't," he says, frowning, and for the briefest of instances Leia remembers that she is not the adult in the room, and that it's probably a damn miracle Anakin remembered how to drunk-dial Obi-Wan instead of someone who wouldn't have come, or, worse, have come and not known what to do. "If you see Anakin today, tell him Qui-Gon is expecting him. Any afternoon."

Leia nearly stamps her foot again. "Am I the _only goddamn one_ in this school who isn't going to end up in Jinn's stable?" she says menacingly.

For some completely incomprehensible reason, he just laughs (at her, it's definitely at her and it makes her seethe). But then Obi-Wan pats her shoulder and says "You might just be the only one who doesn't _need_ him, dear," and all of her annoyance starts to drain away.

She'll take that compliment. For the time being, anyway.

*

The stone is cold beneath her jeans, but Padme welcomes the feeling. After not speaking to Anakin for several well-deserved days, the thought of having to is nearly more than she can bear.  

Every time, it is the same. He swears it won't be, but it is. And this time, it is particularly awful.  

Playing the victim has never been her thing, but parts of her feel battered and bruised beyond recognition, the weekend doing little to quell the throb.  She has managed to get herself into some semblance of physical order, her dark hair scraped into a high, reasonable ponytail pulled away from the clean lines of her face. Rare is the occasion for wearing it down, even though Anakin enjoys it that way.

She is not altogether sure she cares about how he 'might feel' today.

From the bottom of the steps, a familiar figure approaches and Padme is filled with both relief and dread. Ahsoka Tano, with her strange, blue-streaked pale-as-hell hair is a much more welcome sight that Padme's ‘boyfriend.’  If the title even fits right now.

Padme smiles a little in spite of herself, because honestly, what is Ahsoka wearing?  A short skirt black skirt, electric blue tights, and matching black boots that lace up the sides, complete with cropped fuzzy sweater sporting a skull with a bright blue bow atop its head. Such a strange girl...

Ahsoka waves in an almost hesitant fashion, as if unsure of if Padme might want company and as much as she is trying to convince herself otherwise, she returns the gesture with a 'come on over' motion.

"Need some help holding down the steps?"  Ahsoka asks as she leans against the metal railing.

"Maybe," Padme says with another half-hearted smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.

The other girl is also sporting about fifteen black bracelets on each arm, some made of rubber, some of fabric, and a few chain-link varieties. "How long does it take you to put all that on in the morning?" Padme asks, because she really doesn't want to talk about Anakin. Or anything of substance.

Ahsoka smirks. "Like, twenty seconds. I've got it down to a science." She plops herself down beside Padme, setting her flute case and a notebook stuffed with staff paper on the concrete. "I'm going to bomb the fuck out of this theory test," she says, running a hand through her hair.  "I can feel it."

"I remember Mace's tests," Padme says, her smile a bit more genuine. "You'll be alright.  Just trust your instincts."

Ahsoka laughs, as if she's said something hilarious. "Yeah, sure." She props her elbows atop her thighs and rests her chin in her hands. "So, Kenobi and Jinn, huh."

"Oh my _Gooood,_ " Padme says with a groan. "What _is_ that?"

"Weird," Ahsoka says.

" _So much_ ," Padme agrees.

Kenobi is walking around like he's high or something," Ahsoka says.  "He's got this dopey-ass grin on his face like - "  She sits up straighter and flashes all of her teeth, half-crossing her eyes and batting her eyelashes with an exaggerated sigh.

Padme giggles.  "I know.  Leia told me.  I haven't seen it for myself yet and I'm kind of dreading it."

"It's pretty sick," Ahsoka confirms. She nudges Padme's arm with her own. "I have to run before I'm late for Windu's torture.  See you around?"

Padme locks eyes with the other girl for a moment. She doesn't ask if Ani is alright.  Ahsoka returns the stare and she doesn't say that he is.  Instead, she gives a simple nod and pats Padme's wrist and the older girl is relieved by the unspoken confirmation that he isn't lying a hospital bed somewhere. Or worse.

"Thank you," Padme says, giving the hand a squeeze.

Ahsoka says nothing, shrugging her shoulder with a smile before gathering her mess of staff paper and hustling it through the front door.

Padme wonders what it must have been like for Ashoka to watch Anakin grow into a virtuosic whirlwind of talent and self-destruction; and she wonders how long she herself can stand the view.

 

*

**TBC**

*


	9. Allegro Agitato, Part 1

*

Anakin has had a headache for nearly seven hours by the time he drags himself into Alice Tully at 2pm - one of the ones which is all the worse for _not_ having been induced by alcohol. He's missed Windu's test (which he technically doesn't need to take, given that he sets the curve for the rest of the damn class and lowering the bar is no skin off his nose and would fact even be welcomed by his idiotic peers), and his mouth feels like it's been stuffed with cotton; his warmup scales before he left his apartment took six minutes rather than three. Only Leia's text had convinced him that it was worth getting out of bed, and so here he is, disgruntled and worried and needing to see Padme rather a lot, in front of Qui-Gon Lord Almighty Jinn's office door, waiting to see if he'll present more of a challenge than Professor Palpatine to someone who's beyond bored and has nothing to lose.

The door's open when he gets there, as it happens, and there are voices speaking inside, which nearly makes him pause - but fuck it, Jinn had said any afternoon, so surely he has the standing appointment? The door swings further under his knock, and he's briefly surprised to see Obi-Wan there, leaning over the desk at Jinn's seated shoulder, the two of them engrossed in marking up a well-used score.

And then he remembers what had gone on the night before he'd had this month's implosion, and it all makes sense. He wants to say something cheap and silly, but then Jinn looks up at him with something stern and uncompromising in his eyes and Anakin decides that maybe just this once, diplomacy is the answer.

"Professor Jinn? You said I could drop by?"

"Of course," Jinn says, closing the score and handing it sideways to Kenobi; Obi-Wan smiles at Anakin, genuine and happy to see him, which makes something in Anakin's mouth turn sour with guilt. "We were just finishing up."

They don't touch each other in the slightest as Obi-Wan turns away and packs up his cello, Anakin notes with interest - but there's no mistaking it. _Fuck, but this is hilarious._

"Tomorrow?" Jinn says, and Obi-Wan nods halfway through patting Anakin on the arm as he goes out.

"Tomorrow," Obi-Wan says, and then looks quickly at Anakin, nailing him with the sort of stare which reminds him, as Insufferable Do-Gooder Obi-Wan always does, that he's been given a chance he really shouldn't fuck up. "Good to see you, Anakin."

"Likewise," Anakin says, forcing a smile onto his face. By the time he's swung his case off of his shoulder and settled in the chair opposite Jinn's desk the professor has already settled back into his chair and is looking over his steepled fingers with an expression that makes Anakin think he's contemplating the cornering of a wild animal.

It's actually kind of refreshing.

"I have very few rules, but I expect you to follow them to the letter," Jinn says abruptly. "No repertoire composed after 1800. No vibrato. And absolutely no showing off. I expect that this last will be the most difficult law for you to keep to," he says wryly, as he takes in the brief shudder Anakin can't help but let out (in truth it's more the vibrato than the performance he's worried about). "But we must start somewhere, and in your case I understand we will have to do quite a lot of work stripping back your brilliance and volume into a tone more suited to a baroque ensemble. Do you understand what I'm saying to you?"

Anakin isn't sure if he should nod or speak, so he opts for a combination of both.

"I won't lie," he says to Jinn, perhaps a bit too boldly. "I'm probably going to fuck it up at first."

It takes the slow raise of Jinn's eyebrow to connect that fact he has just said ‘fuck’ in front of Qui-Gon Jinn while also admitting to being possibly incompetent. He runs a hand through his hair with a sigh as he sits back in the chair. "Sorry," he mumbles.

If Jinn cares, he doesn't say as much. Instead, he glances towards Anakin's violin case and gives it a nod.

"I would like for you to play for me," Jinn says.

" _Now?_ "  Anakin says before he can stop himself.

"Now," Jinn affirms.

Anakin is slow to remove the violin from its case, as if pondering a way that he might suddenly get out of this and wondering if truly, coming into Jinn's office has been a mistake. Palpatine does not make him nervous. By all right, he should. His hawk-like stare and almost reptilian hand movements are honestly the stuff of student nightmares. At times, he appears a doddering, fragile soul, a wisp of a man who looks as if he might need a hand up the nearest staircase.  But Anakin knows that this is lie. Beneath his aging surface, the Dean is a still an unholy monster of a professor whose searing disdain for musical incompetence puts even Mace Windu to abject shame.

Anakin is headstrong and visceral, a thing that does not always bode well for all types of music, but Palpatine does not seem to mind. Rather, he feeds the fire with Paganini and horrific transcriptions of piano concertos.

"Okay," Anakin says. "What do you want me to play?"

Jinn waves his hand. "Whatever you like."

Anakin rises to his feet and Jinn amends his statement. "Anakin, something _you_ fancy. Not what you believe would interest me."

It is now Anakin's turn to raise an eyebrow. With all of Jinn's ‘rules,’ one would think he'd want some boring ass shit like Bach right off the bat, but whatever. It's going to be Sivan’s transcription of a [Liszt b minor sonata for piano](https://youtu.be/6d7K6JRHFr8), then. The fact that someone was crazy enough to even do such a thing for violin was a horror all its own. Playing it was something else entirely.

Anakin doesn't need the sheet music. He's got a photographic memory when it comes to scores and just about everything else.  And since Jinn had insisted...

The transcription is a technical nightmare of a piece, something even Palpatine himself trips over, which is why he gave it to Anakin, whose fingers feel slow and lethargic today, but on his worst day are still a near-impeccable flurry of motion.

The Liszt requires over 30 minutes of nonstop of absurdity, but Anakin jumps between his favorite bits as easily as if he has switched directions in the hallway. Perhaps he plays for five minutes.  Perhaps ten. The fact that Jinn is watching him is forgotten. The fact that he is not alone is unnoticed. There is only the weightless quickening of his fingers over the fret board, the swift glide of his bow, and the fury of Liszt's musical vision resonating in his ears.

Jinn does not speak until he has finished, which might have been an embarrassingly long time or an absurdly short one. It is as if Anakin cannot remember.

"Sorry," Anakin says with a wince, not at all sure why he has felt the need to apologize, but doing so just the same.

"There is no need to apologize," Jinn says. He tips his head with an assessing stare, strokes his beard with two fingers, and rises to his feet. "You play with great passion, but to you, that passion equates to speed and technical fury."  

He walks to the nearest bookcase and rifles through a pile of scores before plucking something from the mess of papers.

"I believe this will suit you," Jinn says.

He presents the sheet music to Anakin, who cannot disguise his suspicion.

“This is Bach,” he says, as if Jinn has no idea.

"Is it?" Jinn's smile is like some kind of elusive joke that Anakin isn't privy to understanding.  He taps the music with one finger. "Do not listen to another play it. Do not ask for another's opinion on how it should be played. Come back tomorrow and play your interpretation for me."

Anakin gives him a dubious look. "Tomorrow?"  

"Tomorrow," Jinn says.

Right, Jinn is out of his fucking mind. While the movement looks deceptively easy at a glance, Anakin is certain there is something he is missing. A big something.

Anakin shrugs a shoulder. "I'll try."

"Do not try," Jinn says. "Do." 

He tries the piece a few different ways when he gets home that evening, playing it from memory on his third attempt; he plays it at the 440A and the 415A, not liking how it sounds flat and sour with the latter but persevering knowing that Jinn likely won't accept anything else. The whole movement only takes ten minutes the first time - gritting his teeth, he slows down to an excruciating snail's pace and makes it last twenty. The only vaguely difficult bow play is in a middle section of visually-complicated but physically-simple shifting arpeggios, and as for the rest of it the double-stops are child's play to his large hands and the stresses of various rising lines seem patently obvious. Anakin's full exploration of it takes less than two hours, and he's fucking well dying by that point to look up what the hell this piece supposedly is that Jinn thinks it's a challenge.

He doesn't, though, because despite his well-honed sense of superiority he's not fool enough to fuck up what he knows is supposed to be a teaching experience, and he goes to bed satisfied with what he'll be able to present in the morning. He doesn't sleep well, instead spending several hours staring at his phone in the dark as though expecting Padme will have a mid-night revelation and want to talk to him again. The heaviness of having not seen her for five days settles in Anakin's gut like a rock.

All in all, he's in a bit of a foul mood when he arrives back at Juilliard at nine in the morning and caffeine-less, only to see Jinn and Obi-Wan entering Alice Tully by two separate doors and not fooling anyone even at all. Obi-Wan's closest as Jinn heads down the corridor to the stairs that lead to his office, and Anakin can tell, as he turns and bee-lines for him, that Kenobi is not looking forward to their conversation.

" _So,_ " Anakin drawls. "How bad's your performance that you need to resort to other means for your degree?"

Obi-Wan's normally-warm eyes narrow sharply, leaving Anakin somewhat surprised that he's managed to cut that deep so easily. Fuck, were they actually _serious_ about each other?

"I would have thought you'd have more respect for your instructors, Anakin, if not for me." Obi-Wan's voice is quiet and calm, at least, when he speaks, though it seems to be taking him some effort to keep it that way. "Though come to think of it, I'm not sure what ever convinced me of that."

"Sorry," Anakin mutters, feeling uncharacteristically chastened. "I just - um - rough week - "

"I'm well aware," Obi-Wan says tartly, folding his arms across his chest. "I'm not your minder, Anakin, nor am I your father, though it seems you need both just to function tolerably. Have you apologized to Padme yet?"

The prickle of annoyance that sweeps through Anakin at Obi-Wan's familiar tone is welcome to distract him from the reminder of his patent failures. He'd like to kill Kenobi, in fact, for mentioning anything about parents, though it's his own fault that he's kept that particular box tightly shut and he's hardly going to open up about it now. "She won't let me."

"I don't blame her." Obi-Wan studies him critically for a few more moments before his expression softens; that, too, is familiar, the moment when Sainted Fucking Kenobi can't be angry any longer and gives in to taking care of whatever student in the entire damn school rushes up to him with their problems. "Qui-Gon is expecting you. Don't keep him waiting."

He turns away from Anakin before he can answer, him and his cello case turning down towards the practice rooms. Anakin scuffs his feet as he walks downstairs, reluctant, suddenly, to spend the rest of his morning no doubt being tortured into submission by one of the school's biggest blowhards.

And so it proves - at least at first. Distracted, Anakin plays the Chaconne for Jinn at his briskest pace, probably clocking in around nine minutes, and though he doesn't miss a note there is a pained expression in the corners of the professor's eyes and his hands are clutching the edge of his desk as though he'd rather like to tear it apart.

"Good lord," Jinn mutters eventually, once there has been at least a full minute of silence in the wake of Anakin's obvious cock-up.

"Right," Anakin sighs. "What first?"

Jinn takes a moment to center himself, and finally leans back in his chair and nails Anakin with a thousand-yard glare. "The sequence of six partitas and sonatas are Bach's ultimate expressions on the violin - with the possible exception of the Matthew Passion's _Erbarme dich_ ," he adds, with a wave of his hand, and though Anakin already severely wants to sit down and zone out of this lecture he's pretty sure that would be an incredibly bad idea. "The [Chaconne of the Partita in d minor](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c5YMKK-Typo) is commonly considered to be one of the most sacred, beautiful, and technically challenging pieces in the repertoire for the instrument."

He leans forward, then, and his frown looks like thunder sounds. "You just played it as though you were a busker working a funfair."

Anakin cringes a bit at the assessment, unsure of if he is offended, humiliated, or slightly pissed.  Possibly all three. Rather than give Jinn the better portion of his surliness, he manages to keep his arms at his sides and avoids pulverizing the neck of his violin into sawdust.

"What is it, then, Anakin?" Jinn rises to his feet then, presenting Anakin with his full height, which is impressive, considering that Anakin himself is two inches past six feet. "You cannot play Bach from a place of anger. I can tell you this much."

"What..."  Anakin swallows beneath Jinn's scrutiny, hates himself for it, and continues.  "What makes you think I'm angry?"

"I do not 'think' it."  Jinn is dangerously close to him, close enough so that he can smell the clean, almost earthy sort of scent that clings to his clothing. The professor's voice is a roll of gravel near his ear. "I _know_ it, young one."

He steps back, eyes Anakin from head to toe with that slow, assessing tilt of his head, two fingers stroking the edges of his bearded jaw.

"You are a brilliant violinist," Jinn says, as if conceding to some sort of point. "Brilliant, but arrogant. Your sense of musicality is rash at best, your technique enviable in its precision, but lacking focus or clarity. There is great passion in you, but you direct it with fury."  

Jinn paces the length of the floor before him before coming to stand beside the desk.  "Begin again," he says. "But this time, play as if you are begging the music for forgiveness, because you most certainly should."

"I'm having trouble with the lack of vibrato," Anakin says to stall for time because seriously, what the fuck is Jinn asking for?

"I will concede that perhaps a sprinkling of it is acceptable," Jinn says at last. "Like punctuation for your plea, if you will."

"My _plea_ ," Anakin repeats with a bit of a smirk.

"That would be correct," Jinn says.  He glances askance at Anakin before adding, "surely there is some transgression that you can call forth in this instance, something that words cannot properly voice an apology for." He nodded towards the violin in Anakin's hand. "Speak it in this way."  

There is no mirth in Jinn's tone, no lightness or hint of the teasing admiration that so many professors often use when speaking to him, nor is he looking to be impressed by Anakin's grasp of the flashy and furious fingering. Jinn's expression is one of unreadable scrutiny, but there is an air of expectation to his stance that Anakin finds himself unwilling to disappoint.

*

**TBC**

*


	10. Allegro Agitato, Part 2

*

Qui-Gon watches as the youth attempts the Bach on his own and what starts as blatant frustration begins to channel itself in a different direction after the first phrase.  Anakin has too much emphasis where it should not be and too little attention to delicate detail, but the uncertainty of his fingering is not from lack of memory. It is because he is remembering the feel of Qui-Gon's grip upon his own and his hesitation is marked by something the professor did not expect to see this soon. The desire to learn. And perhaps, to please.

_Well, then._

Qui-Gon endures Anakin's butchering of the phrasing, which is marked by a few rather blatant halts and irritated huffs.  He says nothing when the stroke of a bow is too forceful out of frustration or when a heinous fervor of vibrato disrupts the clarity of Bach's delicate voicing.

It is more than obvious where the boy's comfort level lies as he picks through any manner of mechanical complexity with an enviable, dexterous ease.  And it isn't so much that the kid has a lack of musical common sense, either.  It is his ability to connect with it that is lacking.  Or perhaps, his ability to let himself feel what it might be like to experience it.

Some thirteen-odd minutes later, Anakin looks as if he is ready to snap his bow in two with his teeth and Qui-Gon's smile is growing more difficult to mask.  Anakin shoots him the Am-I-Fucking-Done-With-This-Shit-Yet-You-Insufferable-Pompous-Asshole?  look and this time, Qui-Gon cannot resist the urge to chuckle, especially when Anakin rakes a hand through his unruly waves and exhales a sharp, vocal sound of exasperation that he doesn't even try to dampen.

"Well?" he says.

The prompt is both uncertain and demanding.  Qui-Gon's smirking rendition of a smile broadens just a touch.  He steeples the tips of his fingers together with a slow sort of tapping motion between them.

"What do _you_ think?" the professor asks.

Clearly not the answer Anakin wants to hear.

"I. Don't. _Know_ ," the younger man grits.

His tone is colored with frustration, confusion, and the absolute height of irritation.

"Then you shall have to consider it until you have something of value to report," Qui-Gon says.

"What the actual fuck," Anakin mutters without any regard for the words.

Qui-Gon ignores the blasphemy and looks briefly at the wound clock he keeps on his wall between two rows of bookcases; the continuous repetition of a fifteen-minute epic and the consequent instruction has taken its toll on the day, and if he's not mistaken, Anakin is tiring. "It's half-past six. We are finished for today," he says, and turns away to rummage in one of his desk drawers without noting the boy's response. "Here," he adds momentarily, and holds out two CDs for Anakin's long-fingered hands. "You may now listen to these recordings in order to learn more about how the piece functions. You are allowed to emulate the Szcheryng. If you take _anything_ of substance from the Perlman, on the other hand, you will consider it a mercy never to have me instruct you again."

"That bad, huh?"

Qui-Gon barely supresses a shudder. "He is of the Mendelssohn school - plays it as though Bach was born in 1825 rather than 1685. Atrocious. You will listen to it so that you know exactly how it should _not_ be played."

"Pity," Anakin says as he swings his case over his shoulder; there is something predatory and angry back in the young man's expression, a gleeful acceptance of Jinn's challenge. "I do so _enjoy_ his Brahms."

"Out," Qui-Gon orders, pointing at the door, and finds himself taking rather a lot of pleasure from having established, albeit tenuously, the sort of relationship with the boy in one afternoon that makes Qui-Gon feels comfortable with steering him, hard. "You have work to do."

"Pro _fessor_ ," Anakin smirks, with a flourish of both hands. He walks like he plays, quick, taut, and precise, already pulling a crumpled cigarette out of a pocket of his jacket. He leaves Qui-Gon quietly chuckling, unexpectedly but satisfyingly tired, and more than content to go back to the score-work he had been doing that morning for just a few minutes before he will tidy up the office and head home.

He's halfway into his typical reverie when there's a tap at the open door, and he looks up to see Obi-Wan standing there with his cello, obviously just finished with a marathon practice session of his own by the limp hang of his arms at his sides.

"How did it go?"

"Surprisingly well," Qui-Gon says, tossing his pencil into the detritus on his desk and leaning back with a small sigh. "You were right about his ability. He is astonishing."

"He is, isn't he," Obi-Wan says with a smile. He has made no move to enter the room, which makes something unnecessarily greedy start to curl in Qui-Gon's chest. "I'm glad he swallowed his pride and came to you."

"So am I," Qui-Gon murmurs. "Obi-Wan?"

"Yes?"

"Come in. And shut the door."

A grin wars with an entirely understandable trepidation on his lover's face; nevertheless, he at least takes the step of swinging his instrument off of his back and setting it down on the floor. "I thought we had rules."

"We do. For classtime hours."

"I think it's reasonable to assume there's a rehearsal going on _somewhere_ in this building," Obi-Wan answers, his smile still growing. He steps further in, and then, finally, with a brief look out into the corridor, turns to close the heavy wooden door behind him. The key grinds quietly in the lock, and Qui-Gon is waiting to take Obi-Wan's outstretched hand as soon as he rounds the corner of his desk.

It's been nearly two weeks since that first kiss after the Juilliard 415 rehearsal, and Qui-Gon finds himself as covetous of their time together as in that beginning instant. They are neither of them particularly possessive; of each other's feelings, yes, of course, but not of their time or space; they have no expectation of upending each other's lives, and that has been silently understood from the start.

This, though - the sensation of Obi-Wan's skin under his hands as he slides them up under the younger man's ever-soft sweater, as he tilts his head up for Obi-Wan's swooping, demanding kiss - this he will snatch at at every opportunity. This desire, as he turns Obi-Wan around and, still seated, presses him down over the desk, pushing up both sweater and shirt so he can press his lips to the base of a muscled back and Obi-Wan, gently shuddering, reaches out to grab the opposite edge with white-knuckled hands, will remain ever unrestricted.

"I wish I could hear you sing again, dear one," he rumbles, and Obi-Wan's breath catches as Qui-Gon reaches around him to undo the zipper of his jeans and start to pull them down from the back. "But I'm afraid you'll have to keep that lovely voice of yours in check this time."

"Jesus," Obi-Wan gasps quietly - he turns his face into his elbow and bites down, only the smallest of moans escaping him as his hips roll backwards into Qui-Gon's hands.

"Prayer will be of little use to you now," Qui-Gon assures him as he rises to his feet.

He takes the time to herd the ancient score into the nearest drawer and flick the various pencils onto the floor, not so much caring where they might land. The desk is heavy and archaic, a ponderous piece of furniture that has given many a mover grief until Qui-Gon had found a proper office that he could actually stomach. The weight of Obi-Wan's body atop the wood is of little concern, not when Qui-Gon himself has climbed atop it more than once to reach the tops of his absurdly tall bookshelves. Ladders, after all, are a nuisance.

"Tell me," Qui-Gon rumbles near his ear. "Are you quite tired from all of that practice?"

The tips of his hair brush Obi-Wan's neck as he leans down to feather a profusion of kisses down the side of his throat, pausing near his shoulder to give a rather sound bite there, as if claiming the other man as his own in some animalistic gesture 

"Not so much," Obi-Wan pants.

"Then clearly, you did not practice enough," Qui-Gon says.

He reaches around to grip his lover's cock in a firm vice of fingers, smiling when Obi-Wan gasps.  His touch is not rough, but commandeers all of the other man's attention as he presses his body against Obi-Wan's now bare backside.

Qui-Gon hasn't bothered with his own pants yet, but the evidence of his arousal is a hot strain through the fabric, a sort of unspoken taunt that he makes no effort to conceal. From the sound of Obi-Wan's muffled groan, the promise of it all the more appealing.

His fingers slide to the base of Obi-Wan's cock and arc up again with a twisting grip that drags another stifled vocalization from the other man. For a moment, Qui-Gon considers flipping him onto his back and taking him into his mouth, forgoing his own desire for that of another, but the demand of the tease he has given outweighs this notion.

_Another time..._

With one hand, Qui-Gon manipulates the buckle of his belt into releasing and manages to unbutton his trousers with little effort, all the while keeping a slow, kneading rhythm with the hand that is currently occupied with far more important things.   

From the opposite edge of the desk, Obi-Wan's soft voice chimes his name.  It is a pleading, breathy waver of sound, almost broken in its need somehow and it nearly drives the edges of his sanity beyond their limitations.

He tugs the fabric of his pants of his hips, dispenses with his undergarments in the same manner and presses his now-naked skin to Obi-Wan's own, savoring the brush of skin-to-skin contact, as well as the shudder it elicits from the other man.

_He will be the death of me_ , Qui-Gon thinks.  And affirms that this would be a most pleasant way to end his entire existence.

He loses himself in the sounds Obi-Wan does and doesn't make. Qui-Gon finds it easy to remain silent, himself; he has never found demonstration to be a necessary partner of sensation, and so he bends down close, puts his mouth to Obi-Wan's neck, and listens. Listens to the catches of breath and the whispered litany of frankly filthy vocabulary, watches the thrilled-frightened looks Obi-Wan throws at the locked door. He tangles his hand in Obi-Wan's hair, pulls back, deliberately shortens his lover's breath until it's all he can do to drive forward harder, faster, and the one noise he allows _himself_ is the deep groan he eventually has to press into Obi-Wan's nape.

Obi-Wan goes slack underneath him then, gasping into his own shoulder, and that sort of capitulation simply won't do - as he recovers, Qui-Gon returns to his previous impulse and hauls Obi-Wan over onto his back, lowers his head and his mouth, and Obi-Wan's neck strains so prettily as his whole body tenses sharply and his hands dig like claws into Qui-Gon's scalp. A few strokes of Qui-Gon's tongue is all it takes before he's hissing through his teeth and finally collapsing back, his head hitting the wooden desk with a thud that is the loudest he's been so far this evening. Qui-Gon waits, nibbling gently at sweat-slicked skin, until Obi-Wan props himself vaguely up on his elbows and shoots him a look which speaks of fond fire.

"We are _never_ ," Obi-Wan says, completely hoarse with the effort of keeping himself under control for so long, "doing this again."

"No?"

"No," Obi-Wan chuckles, and falls back flat onto the desk with a long, contented sigh.

The next morning, after a long, refreshing night of sleep alone - Obi-Wan had said goodbye to him at the subway as they took their separate paths, and Qui-Gon had blessedly felt no resentment at it - Qui-Gon returns to Juilliard early, and, despite himself, rather looking forward to that indeterminate time when Anakin will come back to him. The boy's raw talent is extreme, and molded in the right ways he will be exhilarating. In many ways, Professor Jinn wants to allow himself the pride of being the one to tame the prodigy.

His high spirits are dashed, at least partly, when he manages to run into Dean Palpatine in the lobby. The old violinist is straight-backed and kindly-looking as ever, but the keen look he shoots Qui-Gon before they turn in tandem and walk down the same corridor towards the faculty office is penetrating, sharp.

"It's good to see you, Qui-Gon," the Dean begins, innocuously enough. "You're keeping yourself busy this semester, I hear."

"Relatively, yes." _Straight into it, then_. "I hope you're not too displeased by my borrowing your protege."

"Of course not," Palpatine answers, with a vague wave of a hand. "Anakin is a remarkable young man, and I can only hope his education here is as remarkable - which means exposing him to as many styles as possible, naturally. I only hope that you do not tempt him away permanently."

Ah, there it is - the underlying, completely innocent threat. "I wouldn't dream of it."

They have reached Palpatine's office, but the Dean pauses at the door, only the tips of his fingers on the handle. "What other steady students do you have this semester?"

"Just the one," Qui-Gon says slowly. "A master's student in the baroque."

"Ah, yes," Palpatine says casually. "Mr. Kenobi. I have heard good things about him from my other young charges. How do you rate his ability?"

"Brilliant," Qui-Gon says, instantly, and - somehow - surprises himself with the fact that it is true. He has assumed for weeks that it would be only natural to admit that his judgment of Obi-Wan's work would be compromised given their situation, but it turns out that, thinking objectively, he has nothing to worry about on that score. "In an entirely different way than young Skywalker, of course. But he is a complete musician."

Something in Palpatine's smile twists sideways, nastily. "Good, good," he murmurs, finally opening his door and nodding briefly to Qui-Gon. "I congratulate you."

He is gone, the door closing behind him with a genteel snap, before Qui-Gon can respond, leaving him standing awkwardly alone. As he turns away and makes his way towards his office, he cannot prevent his mind from running through the possibly-inevitable, dangerous conclusion to his folly.

Fired from the faculty. Surviving on what concerts he can find. More and more time at home, with his plants, with his beloved instruments. More time with Obi-Wan, if the scandal does not destroy him too. The promise of openness -

He blinks as he reaches his office. Actually, that potential future doesn't sound half bad. In some ways, the idea of resigning is downright tempting.

But no - Obi-Wan would never forgive him. Obi-Wan would not want his teaching career, apparently so valued, to be thrown away. Obi-Wan would not want even the merest hint of ostracization for him, would not want him to be cut off from the world he has been a part of for so long and having to rebuild so much all for the sake of their relationship. He'd rather cut Qui-Gon off now, the professor knows, than have that happen.

Qui-Gon takes a deep breath, and unlocks his door. Well, then. He'd best figure out a plan for dealing with this threat.

 

*

**TBC**

*


	11. Allegro Agitato, Part 3

*

Anakin stares at the wall of the practice room and then glances to the rosin atop his music stand, resisting the urge to give the bow another thorough run-through with it. It is a nervous habit, one that has forced him to re-hair this particular bow more than once and he cannot afford this now.

Although quite honestly, the Dean would have it done for him free.  Palpatine has done much for Anakin, some of which is possibly downright inappropriate for him to accept, but he has done so anyway.

He thinks back to the time he dropped the entire instrument, case and all, down the flight of stairs nearest to the south corridor, not because of a loss of coordination, but rather, because he had, in a drunken stupor, stumbled back into the music building rather than his apartment.  The confusion had been a costly error, issuing a hairline crack in the body of the instrument that while not visible to the naked eye by much had caused a host of resonance problems.

The Dean had noticed immediately, of course. He hadn't questioned just how Anakin had managed such a thing, but rather had offered to look at the instrument himself, if Anakin could bear to part with it for a night. In fact, he had given Anakin a loaner violin that was the stuff of a string player's dreams, a Strad copy so precise that Anakin had to question if it was, in fact, the real thing. 

He had never asked.

The next day, his own instrument had been returned, seamless and unbroken somehow.  Again, he hadn't asked questions, but had merely accepted the thing as he accepted all that the Dean did for him without question.   Possibly because no one else ever had.

Except for Obi-Wan.  Yes, he did owe the man quite an apology, didn't he? For so many things.

Running a hand through his hair, he considers the Stravinsky that Palpatine has treated him with but instead, chooses the Bach. He tries to convince himself that it a grueling, if not boring take on musicality, but is slowly beginning to find himself fascinated by its subtle intricacy, the strangeness of the thick melodic texture like a tapestry for the ear.

It is becoming annoyingly easy for him to lose himself in its structure, to strain the limits of his patience. And to enjoy it.

A subtle tapping at the door alerts him to the fact that he is not alone with Bach any longer and he glances over his shoulder, unable to discern the shaded silhouette's owner without opening the door.

"Yes?" he says with more irritation than necessary.

"Anakin, my dear boy.  Might I have a word with you?"

_And speak of the devil..._

He does not set the instrument aside, but rather carries it along with him as he answers the door, peeking through the crack of it as if he has just been caught in the act of something unseemly.

The Dean's smile is kindly, his posture a humble curl of a spine, hands clasped in a way that makes him appear fragile, if not harmless. A sudden chill marches down Anakin's spine in a surprise attack of unease, but he dismisses it. For now.

"That's very good," Palpatine says. "Very different for you. I assume Professor Jinn gave you such a thing?"

Anakin's nod is slow, as he has not yet found his voice.

"It sounds as if you enjoy playing it as well," the Dean remarks.

There is true wonder in his voice, a thing that makes Anakin question his own ability quite often.

"It's...different," he agrees at last.

"Indeed," Palpatine says. "Well, then. I shall not take up too much of your time. I was hoping that perhaps you might be interesting in taking a bit of dictation for me, when you have a moment of course. I need someone who can transcribe my musical musing as quickly as I can play them and there are so few with such an ability these days."  He glances up at Anakin and his gaze is sharp, if not piercing. "Pity that." 

"Of course I'll help," Anakin says before he can even ponder if he has the time or not.

"I knew you would," Palpatine says. "You are always so good to help me, my boy.  And this is a personal composition of mine, you see.  I haven't the faintest idea if it is even good or not, but it would please me to see it on paper just the same."

Anakin is more than aware that it is good. Probably brilliant, in fact. Everything the Dean composes is as such, but rare is the person who gets to witness the formation of it.  The fact that the Dean has chosen him to help means something. There are others who are older, graduate students who are more worthy, but yet, he chooses Anakin for such a task.

"When do you want me to help?" Anakin asks.

The Dean smiles at him, the expression filled with such genuine appreciation that Anakin nearly takes a step back.

"If perhaps you could manage a moment now..." Palpatine says.

Anakin hesitates. Jinn expecting something more from him tomorrow, something impressive and the rest of his evening is filled with rehearsal and theory homework. The only hour that he has to himself is this one.

"Okay," Anakin says. 

He walks towards the music stand, put his hand upon the Bach. Stares at the music for a long moment, the graceful, somehow aesthetically pleasing runs, the arcing sweep of slurs. The desire to perfect it is a strange, almost irritating call.

But he slips the music inside of his bag just the same.

He's with Palpatine for much longer than he expects - until nearly ten p.m. - and by the time the Dean sends him home, with a muffled, apologetic gasp and a torrent of faux-bumbling concern, Anakin is too tired, and his hands far too cramped up from the furious pace Palpatine had set, to practice again before he falls into bed. The next morning, his bow hand is still aching, and he creeps into Alice Tully far earlier than he would usually in order to sit in the ground-floor cafe and warm his palms with the dreadful coffee they serve, working a thumb across his sore knuckles in an effort to make them loosen up. He has two hours before he's due to meet with Jinn again, he hasn't listened to the recordings as he was instructed, and what had seemed at the start of the week like a intriguing challenge is feeling more and more like a chore at which he's destined to fail. 

 _Much to atone for, indeed_ , he thinks sourly as he flips through his increasingly-tattered sheet music for the Bach, and then, looking up, he sees Obi-Wan emerging from the slowly-growing crowd with his own disposable cup of coffee in hand, and before he can think of what he's doing Anakin sits up straighter, makes determined eye contact with the cellist, and beckons him to come over and share his table.

Obi-Wan hesitates, and Anakin feels something heavy tug downwards in his chest. It really isn't fair, to anyone, how he's been acting recently, but to Obi-Wan perhaps least of all. It's not like he doesn't owe the man a heck of a lot, after all.

He'd actually been one of the skeptics when his classmates, freshman all and most new to New York City, had started tittering the previous October that Prof. Windu was spending a lot of time with an 'old friend' who wasn't a student and yet was spending a heck of a lot of hours, mostly on weekends, hanging around Juilliard as though he owned the place. Some thought he was handsome (Leia called dibs after two weeks, which was both terrifying and also entirely like her, and after that no one else dared try); others had met him and knew that he was a teacher from out of town, and played the cello, and was sitting in on rehearsals and classes on Mace's say-so, which started a whole new round of rumor-mongering because what was juicier gossip than the love lives of your most enigmatic and blowhardy instructors?

It was only in November, when Leia's father was in town and insisted on getting to meet all of his daughter's new friends by inviting them all to a minor embassy function that Obi-Wan was officially adopted, despite his spending much of the evening commiserating with the Ambassador himself in a corner over the fact that they were the only proper adults in the room. Anakin had had a little too much to drink, as per usual - Padme had given him that particular look that always made him hate himself, slightly liquid and entirely too concerned - and there Obi-Wan had been at their elbows, taking the last free glass of champagne out of Anakin's hand and ensconcing himself onto a sofa with them until he was sure they were alright. 

Padme loved him. Ahsoka loved him. Leia pretended she didn't love him. Everyone loved him. Even Anakin, weeks later - when they were celebrating the end of the semester and, at a house-party the drama kids threw in Brooklyn, Obi-Wan was thoughtfully chewing on a spiked brownie they'd thought it would be  _hilarious_  to trick him into eating, merely commenting that it could do with more sugar to offset the taste before remaining infuriatingly sober and grown-up and supervisory the entire rest of the night - knew that he loved him. The freshmen in particular didn't know what they would do without him, begged him to send them pictures of the adorable kids he was teaching upstate, scolded him for not maintaining a proper social media presence until he was finally bullied into setting up a rudimentary Facebook. Now that he was in their lives every day, and they knew how well he could play, admiration has turned into outright delighted sibling rivalry, and the miraculous drama that is his sudden relationship with Jinn is rapidly becoming legendary.

What makes it annoying to Anakin, sometimes - only sometimes, because he knows he's a brat, but he  _can_ rein in his pride most of the time, damnit - is how much Obi-Wan deserves all of their adoration. What he wouldn't give to make his life work out so easily...

In the few moments that he's been reminiscing, the reason for Obi-Wan's hesitation becomes clear - Padme has stepped out of the cafe line behind him, wrapped up in her coat and ears tinged pink from the February cold outside, and as she follows the direction of Obi-Wan's glance her face turns pale around the edges, and Anakin's stomach drops nastily. He still hasn't spoken to her since the previous weekend, knowing that for him to make the first approach probably wouldn't go well.

Obi-Wan turns and says something Anakin can't hear to Padme, and after a moment she nods anxiously, and he puts a hand under her elbow briefly before they both start walking over to Anakin's table, where Anakin sits wondering where all the air he had been breathing had gone. 

Fuck, is he actually  _jealous_  of what the hell just happened?

"Hello there," Obi-Wan says lightly, caution woven through his voice as he puts down his cello case, Padme coming to a nervous halt next to him. "Mind if we join you?"

Sweat trickles down Anakin's back and he realizes that his palms have become slippery with anticipatory anxiety fused with guilt. How does he manage eye contact with him? With her?

He manages an indifferent shrug, follows it up with a nod, and hopes that the two somehow mesh. A myriad of emotions have abducted his ability to speak and his mouth is a desert gully. 

Padme does not sit beside him, but rather puts Obi-Wan between the two of them, managing to sit not across from Anakin, but at an odd, uncomfortable angle that showcases her discomfort more than any words ever could. The rigid line of her posture is an outward display of just how forced this all is, both empowered and fragile at once. It is a mirror of his internal conflict, one that he fears will shatter if tapped by the hammer of speech. 

"Is that it?" 

Obi-Wan's voice draws him away from his inept study of the table and he shoots the other man a glance that in a confused mask of anger and disturbance. The cellist is nodding towards the music. Not Anakin himself.

A mixture of relief and the odd prickle of annoyance flood him and he manages a raspy vocal confirmation.

"May I see it?" Obi-Wan asks.

Anakin pushes the sheet music towards him with one hand, noting the careful grace of Obi-Wan's fingers as he tucks his hand around it, as if it is a treasured thing, an accidental reminder of how Anakin himself has already begun to fail. Again.

Padme's study of her boots rivals his tabletop observation. He takes a moment to redirect his attention to the pale lines of her face, the pinched countenance of her expression that struggles to remain a blank canvas for her emotional state. His mind demands that he speak, that he says something, anything. Content does not matter. 

But his jaw remains clamped shut, his mind a tumultuous landscape of tangled thoughts he cannot unravel.

"Hm," Obi-Wan muses beside him. "This is quite spectacular, really. I’ve heard it hundreds of times, and yet I have never bothered to see it on paper."

Licking dry lips, Anakin struggles to avert his gaze before he speaks, but he can see nothing but Padme. The delicate curve of her ear, the cold-pinkened flush of her fair skin, the slender curve of her jaw, the subtle fullness of her bottom lip set in defiance of the top.

"It's...beautiful," he says.

He does not need to see Obi-Wan to know the expression that he wears. The compassion warms his tone, hinting at both understanding and acceptance in spite of Anakin himself.

"Yes," Obi-Wan agrees. "Deceptive in appearance, but rich and complex. You are lucky to have the ability to learn such a piece."

He does not tell Obi-Wan that his ‘ability’ is questionable at best, or that his sense of duty is a fatalistic shadow that obscures his own light.

“Well,” Obi-Wan continues as he carefully closes the score and pushes it back under Anakin’s hand; he is looking back and forth between the two teenagers, casually, as though the three of them are acting completely normally. “If you two are quite comfortable on your own, I have a standing invitation to lunch that I’m loathe to miss.”

Anakin knows he isn’t imagining the subtle emphasis Obi-Wan puts on the word ‘if.’ He’s also very aware that the question Obi-Wan is asking isn’t for him at all; it’s all for Padme, which is no less a punishment than Anakin deserves.

And then he sees that Padme is smiling – again, not at him or for him, rather for Obi-Wan, but it’s a start, and suddenly his guts don’t feel quite so heavy.

“Go on,” Padme says gently, throwing an elbow sideways into Obi-Wan’s ribs. “Don’t let us keep you.”

“Careful,” Obi-Wan warns, his smirk evident in his voice as he stands. “Honestly. I am surrounded by smutty-minded children.”

“Not without reason,” Anakin chimes in, giving Obi-Wan a predatory grin which gets him a torrid eye-roll in return.

“Keep in touch,” Obi-Wan says, apparently to either or both of them – Anakin can’t quite tell – and then he is gone, with a wave of his hand, and he and Padme are alone with his failures.

She’s always been more mature than him, he knows that. He’s known it from the start, from his first day in New York, when she was one of the welcoming committee for admitted students and, in between her ferrying groups of freshman over the street to Bed Bath & Beyond and handing out maps and emergency toiletries and ID cards, she’d laughed off his first five attempts to get her number. She’d relented on the sixth try, and kept their intermittent texts friendly, ever-so-slightly-curious, and perfectly distant for the first month.

Everything Padme did was perfect. She worked harder than anyone he knew, knowing both her personal and musical boundaries intimately, pushing them out a little further each day. She knew exactly how good she was at everything, but never condescended, boasted, or bragged. She was kind rather than cruel when Anakin came on to her like a derailed freight train; she had the determined courage of her nineteen-year-old convictions, as well as a perfect instinct for knowing and admitting it when she was wrong – something Anakin was about a hundred and ten percent sure he would never, ever learn.

He’d been so ecstatic when she agreed to go out with him that he hadn’t needed a drink or a cigarette for two weeks.

He’s fucked all that up big time, he knows, now. Underneath every fibre of his being screaming at him that he can’t lose her, there’s a stubborn little core of decency which is telling him he should just tell her it’s over. Give her the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ line – which happens to be true – and just go. Maybe leave New York, too. She’ll survive him, and deserves to; whether he survives her is a moot point.

Gods, he sounds like a fucking _child_. Anakin knows, as he nervously waits for her to say something, that he’s behaving like a twelve-year-old that can’t comprehend why the toy he’d broken hasn’t magically mended itself. He’s fucking seventeen and seventeen-year-olds _don’t_ actually know anything about love, and this shouldn’t be this important, and this _isn’t_ the end of the fucking world no matter how you look at it –

But it still feels like it is. It really, really does.

“Ani,” she says, and he looks up at her with a start, not having realized how far away he was. “Earth to Ani. You with me?”

“Yeah? Yeah. Um – yeah. Look, I’m – ”

“No,” she interrupts, and he closes his mouth with a snap, his heart sinking a few more inches. “I don’t want to hear apologies from you, Ani. You know full well we’re kind of beyond the words ‘I’m sorry’ meaning anything much.”

She is pale but determined as she takes a deep breath. “I miss when we were having fun,” she says, softly. “I miss us – being _excited_ to see each other, rather than just accepting that we’d be together every day and have to spend all our time together. I think – ” Here she pauses, and then draws a little more tightly in on herself, crossing her arms against her chest. “We need to work harder on impressing each other if we’re gonna make this work, you know? We can’t just – have each of our lives go on as normal. Because your normal is pretty damn bad, Ani.”

Anakin has no answer to that except to nod, wordlessly, because she’s right. She always is. He’s usually been too stubborn to admit it.

“My normal’s too busy,” she adds, then, and he kind of wants to cry at how she’s making the effort to make it look like she could be any part of the problem, for his sake. “I’m going to cut back a little, you know? Not on rehearsing, but – the other stuff. I’ve been needing a break from a lot of things. And I think…”

“We could have fun,” Anakin finishes for her, hoarsely. “Yeah. There’s, um – there’s a new Pixar movie coming out next week, I think. D’you want to go see it?”

Her relieved smile means more to him than he could ever put into words, or even into music. “Perfect. I’ll see you then?”

“Sure,” he says, and he’s actually proud of himself for managing not to beg her for something sooner. “I’ll text you.”

Padme smiles wider, and when she stands and hauls her viola case onto her shoulder it almost looks like she’s trembling with relief – or is it just the new absence of fear? Or hope, that he’ll finally sort himself out?

Anakin can only hope it’s all of them, and that he’ll fulfill all of them, too.

He watches her go, and sits dumbly for a few more minutes before he remembers the time and gathers up his things haphazardly, spilling sheets of staff paper and pencils and rosin-dust, and hares off to Jinn’s office. The professor says nothing about his lateness beyond raising his formidable eyebrows and pointing silently to his music stand; Anakin plays the first three minutes of the Chaconne purely on instinct, his mind entirely elsewhere.

But then he gets to the variated arpeggios, and something quite wonderful happens; it’s like he’s inhabiting every single tiny note, like his fingers and his bow hand have never been quite this in sync. He is astonished to find that hitting the first sweet, quiet chord of the Major interlude makes something wet suddenly spark in the corner of his left eye. He feels languid, perfectly in control – _content_.

Jinn is smiling at him when he finishes and it is all he can do to stand there with his bow arm limp at his side and his left arm trembling to keep the violin under his chin.

“Well,” Jinn says, eventually. “I can’t imagine what exactly inspired that, but it was precisely what you needed, Mr. Skywalker. Very well done indeed.”

Anakin lets the praise, more honest and more genuine than anything Palpatine has ever given him, wash over him in waves.

He has never felt quite so awake.

*

**TBC**

*


	12. Interlude in D minor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With our EXTREME apologies! Life got Stupid Busy for us recently in both good and bad ways, with the end result that working on this fic fell down our list of priorities. Hope you enjoy this quickie, and we do plan to get back on track!

*

Standard junk has never been his thing, not with music and not with food. Always reinventing, always modifying, always making it his own. That's his thing. But sheer instinct over quirky flair has him reeling at the moment.

It looks like Alpo piled atop soggy fingers, smothered in yellow goo that has begun to congeal around the edges. It has probably sat beneath a heat lamp for hours, crisping to cancerous perfection.

And it is the best thing he has ever tasted in his fucking life. Han takes his time devouring the chili-cheese nightmare as if it is a four-star meal, a thing to be savored and appreciated. Because it is.

What he could do without is her watching him do it. Just how long she's been standing there, he can't be certain.  Had she seen the ‘exchange’ between himself and the kid behind the counter?  Had she noticed that no money had been involved, only a sly look of understanding as the kid pretended to dump the ‘no longer servable’ food, but had given Han the chili-cheese slip in the process?

His attempt not to give a damn is falling short as shit.

With his focus back on the fries, he doesn't notice that she's closed the distance between them, that her guitar case is resting against the table. That she is way too close.

He glances up between a gristly bite of meat and a soggy edge of potato. 

"Something I can do for you?" he asks.

"That," she says with a sniff of disdain, "is disgusting."

"You come here to ridicule my food choices or you actually have something to say?"  

His voice is bordering on the cocky side of rude despite his best efforts to shut himself up. Part of it is the lack of sleep he's experienced from sleeping on the couch in Vos's office. Again. Another part of it is just...her.

What is it about this damn girl, anyway?

She pulls up a chair, perches herself on the edge of it as if doing so is a concession to him somehow and smooths a hand over her skirt. 

"We're doing the Brandenburg, you know."

He arches an eyebrow.  We?"

" _The ensemble_ ," Leia says, as if he is truly idiotic. "Do you plan to participate like an actual active player or are you going to be a sporadic flake with total disregard for the rest of us?"

He pushes the sodden mess of ‘food’ aside and leans across the table just enough to set her posture to ramrod stiffness.

" _That's_  what you came here to ask me? Seriously?" He shakes his head. "Woman, you really need to get your head out of your pert little ass." 

Her eyes narrow, nostrils flaring. _Well, well.  If looks could kill..._

"You know what, never mind. I don't even know why I bothered trying to talk you, seriously.  Go back to your...whatever that is." She gestures towards his greasy mess with a flurry of fingers. "You've obviously got the musical intelligence of a fifth grader and the table manners to match!"

"Save it, princess," he says with a snort. "Your 'authority' doesn't carry any weight with me."

She all but leaps to her feet, snatching the guitar from its resting place as if it is a naughty child to be dragged back into the depths of maternal hell. One finger thrusts dangerously close to his face and he resists the urge to snap at it just on general principle.

"You'd  _better_  show up to rehearsal!" Her gaze rakes him from head to toe and the slight flush of her cheeks belies her venom. "And comb your hair or something!"

"Don't hold your breath," he says.

She executes a sharp turn on her heel as she flounces away and he blows her a kiss in the process. But his eyes fixate on her departing form until she is but an addled spec amongst the waning tide of students, his appetite for grease and chaos suddenly lost. 

There’s still half of the cheesy mess left, though, and he can think of several better things to do with it than either forcing himself to down it or throwing it away. He’s heading off down the hill west in seconds, his guitar bumping on his back – he even tries to keep the Styrofoam lid closed so it’ll stay vaguely warm.

It isn’t hard to find Chewie – it never is. He’s the only thing or person living under the bridge approaches to the Holland Tunnel who keeps himself meticulously clean, for one thing – in this sort of world, not smelling like a dumpster is as powerful a scent as if you’ve slept in one for weeks – and even discounting that, it’s kind of hard to miss a seven-foot-tall mountain man with the sort of hair that could have gotten him a job playing with the Grateful Dead.

“Hey, Chewie,” Han yawns, and plonks the fries down in his friend’s lap. “I know, I know,” he says, rolling his eyes when all he gets is raised eyebrows and a deep _whuff_ in return. “Gimme a break, man. Two-sixty-seven only goes so far in this town.”

The big brown eyes, so dark they’re nearly black, narrow in concern. Across the smoldering trash fire the little group of hobos has kept nursing through the bitter cold, someone catches sight of the fries and makes a very disturbing noise.

“Yeah, I know,” Han mumbles again. “Hey, quit looking at me like that,” he adds, suddenly needled. “It’s cold. Assholes don’t stop to dig change out of their pockets when they’re wearing gloves and it’s minus ten.”

Another _whuff,_ and Chewie’s eyes relax again, and he points towards the ground, head tilting in a question.

“Nah, man – I have a place.”

Chewie’s eyebrows quirk.

“Fine, _fine_ ,” Han grouses. “I stole a key to my prof’s office, he has a couch in there. _No_ , it’s not a problem, I’m pretty sure he already knows. ‘Sides,” he adds, more thoughtfully, “can’t be late for rehearsal with her Almighty-Effing-Highness.”

Chewie is laughing somewhere under his thick, bushy beard. He punches Han on the shoulder, to which Han gives his customary yelp and rueful smile.

“Yeah, yeah. See you later, loser.”

There’s another two hours of daylight left, and another hour after that before rehearsal starts. Maybe, Han thinks wearily as he shoulders his instrument again and checks his pockets to make sure none of the more interesting inhabitants of the bridge have pickpocketed him for a high, he’ll make enough busking in that time for a coffee. He might need it, to stay awake long enough for the Brandenburg.

He doesn’t have any intention on missing out on a second of Organa’s stupid, pretty face.

*

**TBC**

*


End file.
